


Canvas

by LensMind



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Jean, Journalist Marco, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LensMind/pseuds/LensMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein is well-known thanks to two factors: first, his reluctance to attend his own art shows, and second, the beautiful freckled man who appears in every single one of his pieces. Unnamed and unknown, the man sits on the edge of all Jean's thoughts. </p><p>Then Marco Bodt appears. A journalist desperate to write about Jean's art. Marco Bodt... who bares a remarkable resemblance to Jean's freckled man...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Workshop

**Author's Note:**

> **Note: This work belongs to me, please do not copy/dublicate.**
> 
> This was supposed to be a short, one-shot, smut fic... it didn't turn out that way.  
> Hopefully it has (will) turn out better than what is was going to be originally though! ^^ 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr here](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com)! Hope you enjoy!

Nothing could get inside the workshop; even time couldn’t penetrate the thick walls of the old garage. There weren’t many windows to begin with, but the few that were there had been both boarded up and covered with black-out curtains, forbidding even the tiniest speck of light from outside to enter. Both the original garage door and the small side door leading into the main house also had curtains, which could be pulled across once the doors were shut. 

The garage floor had been redone into simple laminate – by far the easiest thing to clean – but the walls were still their old, rough metal work. There were metal beams crisscrossing a little below the ceiling, where the odd box of storage could be put up out of the way. The rest of the interior was pretty bland: an old, ripped couch sat in one corner that really should have been sent to the tip years ago, but it currently served here as an emergency sleeping spot; there was a mini fridge beside it full of bottles of water, and next to that a rickety table (levelled out with the old paper folded under one leg trick) with a kettle. Everything else was just supplies. Art supplies, to be exact. 

This workshop was Jean’s haven; it didn’t matter how long he spent in here when he was working, since there was no outside light or clocks to show the passage of time. Everything was shut out of the workshop: all his problems, all his responsibilities, all the people he knew. And until he chose to open that door back into his house, he could just keep them all at bay. 

That didn’t mean he was completely free inside; it was called the _work_ shop for a reason, and today was just another day of work. He sat on his usual stool with the large easel in front of him, plates of paint scattered around the workbench behind him, finally putting the finishing touches on his latest piece. 

“Fucking freckles…” he muttered. The freckles were always the hardest part on his pieces; they had to be in just the right places, otherwise the final work just didn’t look right to him. He’d been told by his friends countless times that no one else would notice the slight differences in freckle placements, but what the hell did that matter? He would notice. It wasn’t like he got into art for other people. 

With one last dab on the canvas, Jean leant back and let his eyes gaze over this new work to check everything one last time. He smiled. 

_Yes, this was right._

The man in the painting was the same man you could find in every single completed piece Jean had done. The tall, muscular tanned body. The strong jawline that held the world’s kindest smile. The softest eyes. And, of course, the freckles that scattered his body. From the first time Jean picked up a pencil to draw, it was this man who appeared, and it was this man who’d continued to appear and made Jean’s art as popular as it was today. 

Taking a brief moment to feel warmed by the man’s eyes staring at him from the canvas, Jean stood up and stretched his arms high above his head. He moved about the workshop, cleaning away his paints and collecting the countless coffee mugs he’d accumulated over his time here. Then it was time to step back into a world where time moved, and he pulled back the curtain over the door. 

Almost as soon as he’d turned the workshop lights off and stepped into his kitchen, Jean was blinded by the afternoon sun that was coming in from the window. Throwing the mugs into the sink to wash later, he made his way to the front door to see the mail. Three newspapers were piled on his doormat – three days in the workshop, then. He immediately threw the papers in the recycling box he kept by the door (he hated reading the blasted things), and trudged upstairs to his bedroom. 

The house had belonged to his parents, but they’d wanted to move into a smaller place – leaving Jean this old one that had been in the family for generations. Really, it was much too big for him alone, but it had the workshop. Besides, he could afford the mortgage unlike his parents, and he felt it wasn’t right selling the old family home. 

His mobile lay on his bed besides a half open book (that’s right, he’d headed to the workshop after a flash of inspiration, and had just left everything where it’d been at the time). His phone had a couple of missed calls – most from his mother – and then some texts that weren’t desperately important. Since most of Jean’s friends and family knew about his unpredictable work life, no one really questioned or complained if he went off the radar for days at a time without notice. If it had been more than a week, one of his friends would maybe pop round just to make sure he wasn’t starving himself or passed out from exhaustion, but that had only happened a handful of times. 

So, the only person Jean felt needed an immediate response was Armin: one of his closer friends, who also acted as something of an agent of sorts for Jean. 

‘Agent’ probably wasn’t the right word. The artist Jean Kirschtein was well-known for rarely appearing in public, and even more rarely actually answering to any art directors or curators – again, his art wasn’t for other people. Armin had basically taken over as Jean’s PA, talking to everyone on his behalf, since he sure as hell wasn’t going to. If Armin didn’t do it, Jean probably wouldn’t selling or showing any of his work at all. 

So yeah, he owed Armin enough for the guy to warrant a call back straight away. Since his phone said it was still before three, Jean went with Armin’s work number. 

“Armin Arlet’s desk, how can I help?” a voice asked. 

Jean cracked a smirk. “Oh? Still working as a receptionist, Jaeger?”

There was a heavy sigh from the other end of the line as Eren obviously realised who was speaking to him. “I’m helping out a friend, and it gets me extra cash, got a problem with that horseface?”

“What happened to becoming the world’s greatest private detective?” Jean asked as he dug through his drawers for something to wear to bed. 

“Didn’t you hear?” another voice said, appearing on the line suddenly. “He’s going for the world’s greatest professional gamer now.”

“Mikasa! Get off the line!” Eren shouted. 

“But answering Armin’s phone is my job?” 

As the fight between the step-siblings escalated, Jean grew slightly irritated. Usually, there was nothing he loved more than hearing the two bicker (mainly because Mikasa always kept totally chilled, and Eren just freaked out over the slightest thing). Unfortunately Jean hadn’t slept for three days now, and he was too tired to wait around. 

“Can someone just put Armin on, please?” 

“I’m already here, Jean,” the blonde’s exasperated voice chirped in. 

There was a choking sound from Eren. “Armin! You’re meant to let us answer!”

“Every time I do, something like this happens,” Armin let out a sigh. “You guys just hang up, please?”

There was a click as Mikasa hung up immediately, and then another in the middle of Eren’s irritated ramblings as she (supposedly) walked over and hung up his phone. Really, this happened every time Jean rung Armin’s work phone: he end up talking to one of the other two instead. 

“Nice to see you’ve emerged alive,” Armin said finally. 

“Yeah, though I’m pretty tired,” Jean put his phone on speaker and quickly got changed. “So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Oh right,” There was a brief moment of paper shuffling from Armin’s side of the line. “I was just wanting to finalise which pieces you wanted in the exhibition this weekend.”

Ever since noticing Jean’s secret hobby for drawing in high school, Armin was drawn to the art world too – the guy was probably more suited to working in some genius science lab or something somewhere, but after hanging around Jean’s workshop so much, Armin had decided to open his own gallery straight out of school. As Jean was slaving away in art school, Armin had skipped university, taught himself everything he needed to know in one year, and now – a mere four years later – he was the owner of the acclaimed Shiganshina Art Gallery and Show Room. The fact that it was the primary place to see Jean’s work only made him more famous in recent years. 

“Wait, since when was it so soon?”

“Since you locked yourself away for three days. It’s Tuesday now Jean, the exhibition is on Saturday.”

Jean groaned and picked his phone back up, flopping down on his bed. “Well, I guess there’s a new piece for you to show.”

“Really? Great! That’ll get us some last minute publicity, for sure. What kind is it?”

“Painting.”

“Do you have a name yet?”

Sinking deeper into the pile of pillows that littered his bed, Jean stared up at the old, cracked ceiling. He thought back to the work standing on its easel in the workshop: the freckled man smiled back at him in his mind, sitting on a bed lazily with a book in his lap. This picture, just like every other Jean did, was done as if Jean had snapped a photograph of the man without warning. 

He imagined the man laughing and complaining when Jean took the photo. He imagined him leaning forward and grabbing the waistband of Jean’s loose trousers with his strong fingers. He imagined being pulled forward, the book and camera long forgotten, and falling into the freckled man’s lap. Every mental image was right there, perfect and painfully real; from the way their bare chests pressed together, to the way the man’s lips felt on his collarbone. 

“Jean?”

Armin’s voice pulled him out of the painting, and he sighed. “It’s called ‘Good Morning’.”

“You just made that up now didn’t you?” Armin laughed. “Don’t you think part of the art process is coming up with a name meaningful to the piece?”

Jean turned onto his side, frowning at the idea. “What I call it doesn’t matter!”

“What matters is what you see, right?” Armin finished. The fact he knew exactly what Jean was thinking made the artist blush. “Yeah, yeah, so you tell me. Anyway, I’ll send Annie and the boys round to pick it up tomorrow, alright?”

“Sure.”

“You are coming to the exhibition, right?”

“Nope.”

“Jean! You have to! Especially if you’re revealing a new piece.”

It wasn’t like Jean didn’t like the attention or praise he got for his art – hell, back when he was a teenager he pretty much breathed arrogantly – but he absolutely despised attending any of his own events. He was happy to go to parties with other artists or gallery owners; they were always fun, and there was nothing more amusing to seeing his friends battling over who got to be his plus one. If it his own art was being shown? He couldn’t stand it. There was something about watching other people gawk over the freckled man in his pieces that just made Jean feel sick to his stomach. The man was _his_. _He_ thought him up. _He_ slaved over making him perfect in every picture. _He_ was the only one who should be able to look at him that way. 

“Besides, there’s that journalist from the Trost Art Magazine that is writing a special on your art – they’re going to want an interview!”

Jean remembered Armin telling him something about that. Trost Art was one of the leading publications in the art world: covering not only the work lives of the top artists, writers, musicians etc., but their social lives too. They turned the artist into a _real_ person for their readers, and that was probably what made them so popular. Jean had been approached by them a few times to write articles on his work, but this time they wanted to send a journalist ‘deeper’, to write a large spread on Jean himself. Unsurprisingly, Jean had refused to let them take even the slightest peek at his personal life. 

“Fine, I’ll be there. But you better not make it black tie,” Jean grumbled sourly. 

“Deal. Now get some sleep.”

“I’ve been trying to.” 

He hung up before exchanging farewells and dropped his phone on the opposite side of the bed. Shuffling around under he’d pulled the duvet out from under him, he buried his head somewhere in between his pillows and hauled the covers up over him. 

Pictures of his art flashed across his mind; that freckled face the main feature of each and every one, and he began to wonder if he’d given all his pieces such thoughtless names as ‘Good Morning’. Yeah, probably. Maybe if he finally thought up a name for the man, he’d finally be able to have a title that truly meant something. 

That man had been in all of Jean’s paintings since high school, and no matter how hard he tried, Jean had never been able to put a name to that face. Still, he supposed it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like a name made a person.

As he closed his eyes, he was immediately dragged down into sleep. The face of freckles always lingering at the edge of his dreams.


	2. The Freckled Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean meets a very peculiar person during his exhibition. One who really shouldn't exist...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You-know-who makes his appearance. I've got so many things already planned for this story it's not even funny...   
> Shameless [tumblr](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com) plug! 
> 
> Expect the story's rating to come into play from the next chapter onwards btw. Just to warn you (or reassure you, depending on your feelings towards smut).
> 
> Thanks for reading! ^^

Armin’s office was small for someone who owned such a popular art gallery. It sat right at the very top floor of the four story building, along with the other offices and a staff room. Armin was very particular about who worked for him; currently the only full-time workers he employed were old friends, and the cleaners and servers who only came for shows were always the same high school part-timers over and over. The ground and first floor housed permanent art pieces, whilst the third were monthly exhibitions of various sorts. 

Then there was the basement level that most of the public didn’t even know about. That was where all Armin’s big art shows were held. It was also the place Jean was currently avoiding. 

He sat leaning back in Armin’s chair with his feet up on the desk, flicking through his facebook feed on his phone, ignoring the clock that ticked away saying he was fifteen minutes late to his own exhibition. His friends were probably fully aware where he was hiding (it’s not like he ever changed it up), but they were at least letting him keep away for now. Usually they gave him half an hour or so before they could no longer call it ‘fashionably late’ and it was simply rude. 

Jean still thought it was stupid: these things didn’t usually kick off until an hour after the time stated. Tonight was special invite only, so the only people downstairs would either be Jean’s friends, people he’d worked with (none of them expected him to be there on time), or journalists, critics, and famous guests that Armin was trying to butter up.

There was a small beep from his phone: a text from Eren saying he needed to head downstairs now. That probably basically meant the five minute warning. 

Sighing, Jean headed out; metalling preparing himself for three hours of smiling away as other people lewdly stared at his paintings. He took the stairs down to the ground floor in order to pass away a little more time, before stepping out into the main hallway. Some of the part-timers were at the door, ready to greet the guests with glasses of champagne and to guide them downstairs. 

“Mr. Kirschtein!” one girl shouted, trotting over to him (and somehow managing to keep the tray of drinks in her hands from spilling). “Wouldn’t you like some champagne to take down?”

“Hell yes,” he smiled thankfully and took one. He was always happy to get through these things if he was at least a little drunk. Giving them a wave, he turned to head to the next room over where the staircase to the basement was. 

“Welcome sir, can I have your name please?”

“Marco Bodt, here from Trost Art?”

Fuck. The blasted journalist was here. Jean made an effort to walk faster and keep his back to the door in case the guy recognised him and wanted to barrel him with questions straight away. 

“Ah, of course, thank you for coming today. Here’s your coat ticket. You can get to the basement through that door there, where Mr. Kirschtein is going.”

Shit. Damn high-schoolers blowing his cover! Jean straightened his shoulders and bee-lined for the door; he could still pretend he simply hadn’t heard his name mentioned behind him. He could have screamed there and then when he heard footsteps _running_ towards him. Desperate much?

“Mr. Kirschtein?”

A hand fell on Jean’s shoulder: he’d been caught. Forcing his face to look as polite as possible (Armin would wring his neck if he was rude to this guy), he turned.

Everything stopped. 

Jean turned cold. “Wha…?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m from Trost Art, Marco Bodt. I’ve got the privilege on writing an article on your exhibition today.”

Glancing over to the kids at the door in confusion, Jean tried to judge their faces. They were looking this way, watching the exchange with furrowed eyebrows, but none of them seemed to be laughing. 

As he glanced back to the man in front of him, Jean let out a sharp laugh. “Is this a joke?”

‘Marco Bodt’ blinked back at him. “Excuse me…?”

“Is this like a prank or something?” Jean asked, brushing the man’s hand off him and taking a step back. “Jaeger. Was it him? Or Sasha and Connie? Did they put you up to this?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand…”

Jean felt his expression crumbling into anger. Not because he was angry, but because that was the only way he could react to the fear and panic stirring up inside him. 

Because the man standing in front of him was the freckled man from his paintings. 

Marco Bodt stared back at Jean with the same soft (albeit slightly bewildered) eyes. His hair was parted in exactly the same way. Hell, even his freckles were all in the right place. The way he stood, where he rested his hands, the way he blinked in concern – Jean knew them all, because he’d drawn them all. 

All those thoughts, all those days of talking to the man on the canvas, even the dreams; they all came flooding back to Jean as he stared and stood at the real life thing. And how he panicked. 

“This isn’t funny,” Jean snarled, turning on his heel and marching down to the basement. When he found out who was behind this shit, he’d be tearing heads. 

The party was pretty much in full-swing downstairs. Jean’s artworks lined the walls of two rooms, and in the second was the veiled new piece that would be revealed later tonight. It was also in this second room that he spotted Eren. 

Eren was in the middle of talking to Shinganshina’s deputy of security and receptionist Annie Leonheart. She broke the conversation with Eren to give Jean a nod of greeting, and Jaeger was just about to turn to see who she was looking at – which gave Jean a great opportunity to grab his collar. 

“The fuck, Jean?” Eren coughed as Jean yanked him closer. 

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Jean growled. “You think pulling that shit’s funny?”

Eren’s expression quickly changed to anger. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Annie quickly pushed the two apart, muttering something about being in public that Jean wasn’t really listening to. However, before the fight could escalate anymore, a small pale hand grabbed Jean’s wrist and pulled him round. 

He found himself staring down at the pretty, enlightened face of Christa Lenz. Christa was a young heiress to a large fortune – exactly what that fortune was and where it came from was a total mystery, and the topic of many wild theories – but she was one of Jean’s biggest fans, and had even paid him shocking amounts for the odd commission. She was both famous and dedicated to Jean’s work enough to earn a place on all his show guest lists. 

“So that’s why this exhibition had such a small guest list!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “Oh Jean, you can’t begin to understand how glad I am to finally meet him!”

“Meet who?” Eren asked over Jean’s shoulder. 

Jean felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and started rushing to peer back into the first show room. Christa refused to let go of his hand, and was still talking excitedly as he dragged her across to the archway. 

Sure enough, there he was. ‘Marco Bodt’. Standing in the middle of the room staring up at the pictures lining the walls. He seemed completely obvious to the countless eyes on him. 

“Holy shit!” Eren gasped. “I didn’t realise your freckled guy was actually modelled on someone!”

“Wait…” Jean turned to the gawking idiot. “You mean, you didn’t set it up so he’d arrive?”

“You mean, he’s _not_ the model?” Christa asked beside him. She tilted her head to the side as she stared at Marco. “Actually… he does look sort of…”

“Terrified,” Eren finished for her. 

He did indeed look terrified. His body seemed to have frozen as his eyes swept the pieces around him. His mouth hung open slightly, and it was clear he was a little more than overwhelmed. As his eyes did another round of the room, they caught Jean’s. Jean could only stare back. 

Then Marco smiled. A nervous, panicked smile that Jean knew all too well from his work. Before he knew what was happening, he’d shaken off Christa’s hold and was walking towards this… impossible person. 

“I’m starting to understand what you were talking about earlier,” he laughed awkwardly as Jean stopped in front of him. 

“Yeah…” Jean rubbed his neck, glancing out the corner of his eyes to see just how many people were looking this way – more than a few. “You… you really aren’t someone’s idea of a joke?”

“Really,” Marco nodded so forcefully, Jean felt he couldn’t doubt him. “Though, I’m starting to wonder if this is all some elaborate prank on me.”

Jean snorted. “Well, it’s definitely not… Wait, you’re from Trost Art, right?”

“Hm? Yeah.”

“And you weren’t aware of all this?” Jean gestured around the room, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. “This is literally all my art is, aren’t you supposed to like research me before you write about me, or something?”

Marco flinched as if Jean had caught him out on something. He scratched his nose with a small cough. “Honestly? I’m pretty new to the magazine. It was meant to be my superior coming today, but his wife went into labour, and he said he’d give me the chance.”

Folding his arms, Jean frowned at the idea the magazine would send a rookie out to his art show – after all that begging they did to get a scoop on his personal life (even if he did refuse that offer immediately). Really, how rude could they…

Marco’s tongue briefly wet his lips, before he pulled the lower back under his teeth. He looked guilty, with a slight up curve in his bitten lip like he was trying to smile. And by god, that expression was distracting.

Jean pushed a hand into his trouser pocket and pinched himself. Hell, he would have slapped himself if he was alone. This guy may have looked just like the freckled man he painted, but Marco was _not_ that man; Jean could so not have these kinds of thoughts about a total, innocent stranger. 

“Jean!” 

The voice came from Reiner, the gallery’s odd-job-man (also known as simple the ‘Braun’ of the building, who’d just come downstairs. Walking up, he came to a standstill beside Marco, only to do a double take at the journalist. 

“Hot damn,” Reiner mutter. Turning back to Jean, he quirked his thumb at Marco. “He for real?”

“Don’t ask,” Jean muttered sourly. 

“Well, all the guests seem to be here, so Armin says it’s time.” Reiner tapped at his watch and turned to give Marco one last bemused look before walking off.

With a heavy sigh, Jean motioned to the other show room. “Well… I better…”

“Oh, of course!” Marco waved him off. “I don’t want to take up all your time tonight!”

Jean found himself cracking a more relaxed smile. “Yeah, like you don’t freaking deserve it.”

Marco smiled back.

Jean’s breath caught, and he spun around to try and hide any blush that might be creeping onto his face. That smile had almost knocked him off his feet; it certainly had done a number on his heartbeat. That wasn’t a look he knew. That wasn’t any smile he’d ever drawn before. It’d sent a chill through him, and as he peered back over his shoulder at Marco – now being cornered by Christa – he wondered just how that man had managed to smile more beautifully than a painting.

“You’re staring, Jean.”

Armin’s voice brought him back round, and he immediately rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

It seemed Armin had already been let in on the news of the freckled-man-lookalike in the basement, as he simply smiled sympathetically and tugged Jean towards the back of the room were the veiled painting was. “Yes, I suppose I would.”

Jean was placed right beside his painting and ordered not to move as Armin called the room to attention. The guests all gathered round, and Jean made as much of an effort at least look like he didn’t mind being there. Armin did his usual welcome speech: welcoming them, and thanking them for their never-ending support, blah blah blah. Jean stopped paying attention about two minutes in. Instead, he let his eyes fall across the crowd, seeing all the eagar, happy faces (with a few exceptions, of course; that damn ass of an art critic Levi had been invited after all. He always wore an expression that could sour milk). Then, unsurprisingly, his eyes fell on Marco. 

He stood nearer the back of the crowd than most. He was probably listening intently to Armin’s speech, but he had his head bowed low. When Jean shuffled and craned his neck to get a better look, he realised Marco was scribbling something down on a small notepad. Jean smirked; weren’t reporters supposed to bring Dictaphones to record these things, then write them later when they had all the material?

Marco lifted his head, his eyes meeting Jean’s. Jean lowered his head a little, embarrassed to have been caught staring, but his eyes slowly worked their way back up to Marco, almost against his will. 

“Jean?”

His head snapped round to see Armin was staring at him with a ‘talk, idiot’ expression on his face – in fact, everyone in the room was looking at him expectantly. Oh, right, he was supposed to be introducing his piece. 

“There’s not much to say,” Jean shrugged. He smirked at the familiar faces around him, suddenly feeling strangely comfortable. “You’re here because you all know my work best, so I don’t feel too bad bailing and saying the painting can do the speaking for you.”

A ripple of chuckles passed over the crowd, and Armin held his hands up in a ‘what can you do?’ way, before pulling the veil off the painting. 

There was an immediate round of applause, as per, before a quiet chatter settled over those in the room. Jean didn’t try and focus in on any conversation in particular – he could pretty much assume what the various reactions would be. What he did find himself doing was trying to subtly glance over to gauge Marco’s thoughts.

He’d turned red. 

It took a minute for Jean to remember that the painting on show right now including the man topless. His chest tightened at the thought that Marco might be blushing because even topless the man looked like him. Actually, that was probably exactly what the poor journalist was thinking, for a moment later he pulled his shirt collar out a little an glanced down into his top as if trying to compare. 

“Ha!” 

Jean smacked a hand over his mouth as he realised that laugh had be aloud. Thankfully, people were starting to disperse around the room a little more, which gave Jean a chance to work his way back through the crowd. Marco was still in his own little world, staring down his shirt, when Jean cleared his throat pointedly. 

“Hi.” Marco jumped and smoothed his shirt back down again, blushing an even brighter red. 

“So… what do you think?” Jean wanted to swear straight away. He never asked people what they thought of his work (unless it was someone he knew would give an honest, constructive response). Now he just sounded like he was fishing for compliments.

“It’s very ac– appealing!” Oh god, was what going to be ‘accurate’? Marco gave a light huff, before smiling softly at Jean. “No matter what I say, it’ll sound weird considering the circumstances, right?”

“Yeah, a little,” Jean nodded. “So, what are you putting in your article? How some artist creepily painted hundreds of pictures of you?”

“Hundreds?” 

“Well, there about.”

Marco rubbed his forehead, laughing like he was hearing the most ridiculous thing imaginable – which, he probably was, if Jean was honest. 

As Marco seemed to be contemplating the whole situation, Jean found himself falling into a daze as he watched the man’s expressions. Each slight movement – the flutters of his eyelids, the twitches of his lips, the rise and fall of his chest – they were all things Jean had never captured before. His pictures were just images, photographed snippets of perfection; and yet standing before him was the moving version… and he was captivated. 

“Do you want to see them?”

Jean hadn’t realised exactly what he’d blurted out until it was too late. 

Lifting his gaze, Marco’s eyes widened. “Really? But I thought you said no to the personal side of the story?”

Swears and curses were running through Jean’s mind, but his mouth just kept moving. The pounding in his chest taking temporary control over his mouth. “Somehow I think you probably deserve one. Take it as an explanation, if nothing else.”

The glee that shone through Marco’s eyes in that moment was worth whatever regret Jean would feel later. He had to hold his breath; he was certain it would come out shaky if he didn’t. Marco reached forward and grabbed Jean’s hands, gripping it tightly as he shook it. 

“I’d love to.”


	3. Pictures of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean has a guest visiting his workshop... and thoroughly regrets every second of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3... up quicker than I expected...   
> Jean's a huge dork and I adore him. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com).   
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Jean wasn’t entirely sure why his alarm was blaring loudly at nine-fucking-a.m., especially when he’d just spent the last two nights drinking until all hours of the morning. Saturday night was his exhibition, and once the more pompous guests had left (leaving Jean with company he actually sort of enjoyed) they’d ended up hanging around the gallery’s staff room until at least three. Then on Sunday, he was dragged out of bed by a certain pair of loud friends of his (he knew he’d forever regret getting Connie and Sasha a key to his house) and ended up at a slightly smaller gathering at Eren and Mikasa’s. More drinking followed, and if Jean was perfectly honest, he didn’t even remember how he got home, never mind what time. 

So yes, alarm at nine, unappreciated. 

It wasn’t until around ten thirty, after hitting the snooze button a glorious yet still unsatisfying number of times, that Jean realised what was about to happen in about half an hour. 

“Fuck!” His voice cracked as he shouted, pulling himself out of bed and throwing himself into the en-suite at a record rate. 

The shower water was freezing when he first stepped in, which certainly helped in the waking up process. He figured shampoo was required, despite how little time he had; today, of all days, he had to look at least decent. Plus, there something red and sticky clinging to his fringe that he really didn’t want to analyse for too long. 

After that came the stumbling around wet and naked in an attempt to find actual wearable clothes. He hadn’t had time to clean his room in the past week or so, never mind put a load of washing on. That’s what happens when you work for three days, sleep for three days, and then drink for two days. Eventually, he found a pair of boxers – at least his junk was hidden? 

He cut down on time by brushing his teeth as he sprinted down through the house to the utility room, praying that he’d left some clothes in the dryer or something. 

Success! A pair of skinnies that were ripped, but passable. They were also slightly too stiff after being in the dryer and left – but at least it was clothes. There was also an old black polo shirt he hadn’t worn in a while (shit, just how long had it been since he’d emptied his dryer?), so that would have to do too. Socks… Meh, who needed socks? 

He managed to return back upstairs, and finish his teeth before Jean realised he was going to seriously need caffeine soon, or else he’d just collapse. 

A few minutes later, and Jean was leaning against his kitchen counter sipping the strongest coffee imaginable, and flicking on the news channel on the small box TV he kept in the kitchen purely for this purpose. He was starting to feel vaguely human when a sound shattered his newly regained composure.

The doorbell. 

Glancing up at the clock, Jean narrowed his eyes to see it only read 10:50. “Well, shit,” he muttered, taking in the pile of dirty coffee cups in the sink and the dusty house. Hell, he still hadn’t shaved his stubble yet – thank god for his weak-ass hair growth, so it wouldn’t be noticeable unless someone rubbed themselves against his chin. Which Jean safely assumed wouldn’t happen. 

Bracing himself for what would probably be a good few hours of awkwardness and nerves building in his stomach, Jean headed to the front door and pulled it open. 

Marco smiled warmly. “Good to see you again, Mr Kirschtein!”

Ah yes. Here he was. The freckled fucker who was (quite literally) the man of Jean’s dreams. He probably should have spent Sunday trying to take in the whole ‘man who looks like the paintings’ thing instead of drinking away the thought, then Jean wouldn’t be scowling out uneasily at the poor bloke. 

“Jean’s fine,” he assured Marco, stepping aside and motioning him inside. “Come on in… sorry the place is a mess.”

“I bet it’s not even that bad,” Marco laughed stepping in, like he was totally ok with the whole scenario. As Jean shut the door, Marco was glancing around the large hallway. “You’re house is amazing.”

“It’s an old family house,” Jean said, shuffling his feet uncertainly. “But it’s just me here now.”

“Must be hard keeping the place up when you’re working.”

“Hence the mess.”

Neither spoke for a moment, both trying to grasp words that felt necessary, instead of continuing small talk. In the end, Jean rubbed his neck. “Er… so, did you want to just see the pictures or…?”

“Yes!” Jean blinked at how quick and enthusiastic Marco’s reply was. The journalist gave a small laugh and shrugged. “I’m very curious to see… just how many there are.”

Jean couldn’t hold back a smirk, and started through the house back towards the kitchen, beckoning Marco to follow behind. “Well, there’s plenty, I promise you that.”

He was grateful that Marco didn’t comment on the kitchen’s state, but the journalist did refuse the offer of a cup of coffee. So Jean headed straight for the door that led into the garage, hesitating only slightly before pushing it open. 

The workshop was _his_ place, and even his friends avoided coming in here unless absolutely necessary; so it felt sort of strange to just let Marco saunter in. Then again, Marco did sort of fit in here…

The moment he stepped past Jean, Marco’s eyes were sweeping the room over and over. It wasn’t like there were a _lot_ of finished paintings of Jean’s freckled man lying about the workshop, but there were certainly enough propped against various walls or boxes to warrant Marco’s jaw to drop. Jean had to chuckle: he hadn’t seen nothing yet. 

Leaving Marco to wander over to a pair of small watercolours (a set of freckled man pictures with him sinking in a lake), Jean moved over to the open boxes sitting nearest his sofa. He kept all his sketchbooks in these ones, so he figured he should pick out a few. He’d dug out three by the time he heard Marco walking up behind him. 

“You… weren’t kidding, huh?” he said. “They really do all look like me.”

“I don’t know which of us should be more freaked out,” Jean nodded, and sat down on the sofa, patting the spot next to him for Marco to join. The journalist obliged, and Jean presented him with the books. “All these sketchbooks are more my past-times than actual work.”

Marco raised his eyebrows, a pleased smile spreading across his lips as he opened the first one. Jean felt his chest tighten; the way it did back when he first started letting people see his art, when he was desperate for them not to tear it apart. He felt warm watching Marco’s long tanned fingers turning the pages like they were the most delicate pieces of history imaginable. 

“That one’s one of the first I ever filled,” Jean explained, smiling as he looked down upon the pages. It was obvious from the pages of eyes or ears, or clothing ruffles that these were done back when he was still mastering drawing his freckled man. “The date in the back proves it’s from high school… just in case you still don’t believe it’s real.”

“Oh I believe it alright,” Marco shut the earlier sketchbook and started carefully looking over the next – one probably a year or so old. Jean wasn’t sure; he went through maybe six or seven of these a year usually. Like all the later ones, it had less practice scribbles, and more full drawings. “These are amazing…”

The tightness in Jean’s chest lessened a tad. 

Marco let out a sudden laugh, tapping at one drawing of the freckled man pulling a face. Turning to Jean, he cocked his head to the side. “Think I can copy it?”

_Oh good god please don’t,_ was all Jean could think. Yet, there was no way he could make himself pass up the opportunity. Besides, Marco was already studying the drawing and moving his facial muscles to try and match it. Then, when he decided he’d cracked it, he turned to Jean – holding the sketch by his head to compare. 

Jean desperately tried to keep his cool; his heart seemed to have stopped working as he took in the two images before him. His drawing was… just his drawing: a picture he’d built inside his own mind of this man who he couldn’t get out of his head. But Marco? Marco was _real_. And that made the expression look so much better on his tanned, freckled face. His nose all scrunched up, eyes crossed, eyebrows narrowed and lips pursed… just… ridiculously perfect. 

He had no choice but to quickly turn his head, making as if to scratch his nose purely to hide the blush that might have been rising in his cheeks. Yet, all the same, he was smiling. “Yep… you nailed it.”

Marco hadn’t apparently noticed his actions, and laughed proudly before turning his attention back to the books. When he felt safe enough to remove his hand, Jean lent forward, elbows resting on his knees, and watched Marco out the corner of his eye. Really, who the hell looked so happy when viewing a bunch of sketches of… themselves? Jean wasn’t sure if he should put it that way; yes, Marco was pretty much identical to his freckled man, but it was just a coincidence, so it wasn’t like one was the same as the other. 

“So, did you like… want to ask me stuff, or something?” Jean asked – finally unable to just sit silently any longer. “I don’t really do many interviews, so I’m not sure how they go.”

“Well, it’s up to how much you want to do really. If you’ve changed your mind about telling us about the more personal side of your… We can just stick to questions about work for now, you know?”

Jean looked up, confused by the sudden detour in Marco’s words. He found the journalist smiling back at him reassuringly – he’d probably picked up on the grimace Jean had automatically pulled at the mention of his personal life. 

Feeling a little bad that he wasn’t giving Marco the scoop he wanted, Jean nodded slowly. “Yeah… work questions are a good place to start.”

“Ok then,” Marco nodded, but just went back to flipping through the third sketchbook. Jean waited, wondering if Marco was going to wait or pull out some sort of note device or… “So how do you usually prefer to work?”

Jean straightened up, raising an eyebrow in confusion at the laid-back attitude Marco had. The guy hadn’t even looked up at him. “Aren’t you going to like… write stuff down, or something?” he asked. 

“I figured you’d be more comfortable treating this like a normal conversation between friends,” Marco glanced up with the warmest eyes Jean had seen – eyes he doubted he’d ever be able to truly replicate in a painting. “I can take notes if you’d prefer. It’s your choice.”

“T-then conversation is fine,” Jean agreed. He pulled his eyes away from Marco’s – unable to continue holding that gaze any longer. “Um… I guess I just shut myself in here until it’s done. If I’m on a roll, I’ll get it done best in the quiet.”

“What if you’re not on a roll?”

“That’s when I crank the stereo out. Just put on a random music station and blare it until I get working. Wait until a song comes on that gets me in the mood to do whatever I’m meant to be doing.”

“And smaller things? Like these sketches. When do you do them?”

Jean smiled. “Whenever. I’ve always got a book and a few pencils on me, so I just draw whatever comes to mind. The sketches are… comforting, I guess.”

“Comforting?”

“Yeah…” Jean leant against the sofa arm. He thought about the times he pulled those sketchbooks out: when he was waiting at a restaurant and drew the freckled man sitting across from him instead of his mother; the day he was at the theme park with Sasha and Connie, waiting for them to come off a ride on a bench, and drew the freckled man sitting beside him with candyfloss; when he was on holiday in France and drew the freckled man standing ankle-deep in the ocean at sunset. “He’s a very comforting person to draw.”

The two fell quiet; the only sound between them the rustle of pages turning in Marco’s hands, and Jean’s small sigh as he remembered all the times he’d felt alone or upset and ended up drawing. The freckled man was always by his side in those pages, and that was an endless comfort to Jean. Even on the nights were Jean couldn’t sleep, or woke up in the middle of the night, the sketchbook was by his bed, and the freckled man could easily be drawn in the pages to give Jean some co– 

He froze.

_No._

His whole body, his whole mind, was screaming in panic as he slowly turned back to Marco. The guy was still staring down at Jean’s book with a calm, content expression, which temporarily quelled the dread in Jean’s stomach. 

_Temporarily._

Because then he looked down at the open book. And he saw just what drawings Marco had now reached. 

“Shit! No, stop!” He threw his hands out for the book, but Marco had it tight in his grasp and simply twisted until his back was to Jean and the book was out of his reach. 

“You said I could look,” the bastard of a journalist said in a slow, musical voice. 

“Oh my god,” Jean moaned, burying his face in his hands in horror as he gave up on stealing back the book. 

The freckled man did indeed appear in Jean’s dreams – it was where he got a lot of his flash inspiration from – but there were also other dreams the freckled man appeared… the wet kind. And those kinds were drawn out for Jean’s viewing pleasure only. 

Well, until Marco apparently. 

“Please,” Jean begged through his fingers. “Just please stop looking.”

“You certainly draw anatomy well, Jean.”

“Oh my fucking god, no.”

“Maybe I could give you some constructive criticism?”

“No. Please. You weren’t meant to see those.”

“Next time perhaps you could draw yourself in the action too?”

Jean screamed into his hands. 

He felt something plop onto the sofa between him and Marco, and peeked through his fingers to see the sketchbooks all lying closed in a pile. As he moved his gaze up to Marco, he realised that despite how calm he’d sounded, the journalist had a rather red tint to his cheeks. 

“Let’s never talk about this again,” Jean ordered sharply, taking the books and tossing them back into an open box. “Never.”

Marco just laughed beside him. And honestly? Jean just had to laugh alongside him. He could let the mortification drown him later when Marco had left, but for now he was more than happy to slip into hysterics alongside the freckled idiot for a good five or ten minutes. Eventually, the two of them sat slumped against the sofa, their shoulders nearly touching and their stomachs aching. 

“Hey,” Marco said, his tone quiet. As Jean turned his head slightly, he saw Marco’s mouth open as if he were about to say something, then shut it again. After a few moments of watching what looked like confliction passing over his features, Marco continued – though now he sounded slightly nervous. “I… didn’t get all the information I needed for the article…”

Jean forced his lips to remain in a neutral straight line – he could not smile. Marco hadn’t been here that long, and Jean was sure the journalist could easily get all he needed if he went on an asking spree for the next half hour or so. He didn’t point this option out to Marco though. 

“Guess we’ll just have to work on it next time you’re round.”

Marco’s lips twitched, as if he were trying to hide a smile just like Jean. “Sounds good.”

The two didn’t spend too long chatting after that – they just rearranged for Marco to come over after work tomorrow – and then Jean was showing him out. There was a sense lingering around them both that neither wanted to end today’s meeting, but if they waited around any longer, they’d have to do the interview and leave Marco with no other reason to come again. 

Jean hovered in his doorway, watching until Marco’s car turned the corner of the street and went out of sight, before shutting and bolting the door. 

He went back to the workshop and ended up lying across the floor, scribbling out the base for a new painting. He spent hours on that floor, drawing and redrawing, desperately trying to get those eyes _just_ right. It wasn’t until it was dark and he had a more confident outline that he looked at it and realised he wasn’t drawing _his_ freckled man…

… he was drawing Marco.

Jean stood – shaking the pins and needles out of his leg – and stared down at the picture lying on the floor. He just felt completely numb; knowing fine well that whilst their looks were pretty much the same, this picture definitely had _Marco_ pretty much written all over it somehow. It hadn’t been on purpose… at least… he thought it hadn’t?

Picking it up, he wandered over towards his easel and placed the drawing on the workbench beside it. Again, he looked at it. What exactly did he want to do? Paint it? Put it onto a canvas and turn it into a piece of art?

No. 

That was when the panic set in. He grabbed the paper and folded it into quarters. His heart was pounding, his stomach twisting, and Jean nearly sprinting across the workshop to reach the box of sketchbooks. He shoved the drawing in between the pages of one of them and dropped it as quickly as if it were burning his hands. Yes, that was where it belonged. Along with the other mindless drawings that no one else was meant to see. 

That was where that drawing of Marco Bodt belonged. 

He went straight up to bed, quelling the angry growls of his stomach by shoving a few energy bars into his mouth on the way. He didn’t feel like eating at all, but he had to have something if he didn’t want hunger pains keeping him up. 

That didn’t mean he got to sleep. He lay in bed, tossing and turning as that drawing haunted each of his thoughts. Even when he tried to calm himself by shutting his eyes and reaching down into his boxers, he soon discovered it wasn’t his usual freckled man appearing in the pictures in his mind… it was Marco again. 

He couldn’t stop himself though, and by the time his body trembled and shuddered, sending the warm liquid shooting into his palm, Jean thoroughly hated himself. He curled up, desperate to just dream of his freckled man, and get him, and him alone, back to occupying his mind. 

Jean dreamt of Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave it to you guys to imagine what sort of juicy things were in Jean's sketchbooks...


	4. Just a Reference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean tries to force himself to get back in the swing of work, but the memory of drawing Marco by accident weighs heavily on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case I'm not making it clear, the man Jean usually paints is only ever referred to as 'the/his freckled man', any other freckled thing equals Marco (particularly 'freckled idiot'!). I keep getting worried that I might be confusing people. 
> 
> My [tumblr's here](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com), for those who are curious. Let's pretend this was for JeanMarco day yesterday! Please enjoy ^^

Over the next two weeks, Marco appeared at Jean’s as often as work allowed him to; Jean found himself refusing invitations out with his friends just in case Marco got some unexpected time off. Jean sort of forgot that the guy was an actual working journalist, and he was working on more than just Jean’s article for the upcoming issue. 

Yet, the two didn’t seem to get any further with the actual interview. Marco asked the odd question, but they usually seemed to be his own personal curiosities, not what he was supposed to be writing about. In fact, during the later week, they rarely talked about Jean’s art or Marco’s work at all; sometimes they just ended up sitting chatting about whatever came to mind over coffee in the kitchen, or went for a walk around the neighbourhood – they even took a spontaneous trip to the art museum once. 

Jean had yet to decide whether he completely enjoyed time with Marco; he felt like he did when Marco was actually there, but as soon as the freckled idiot left, Jean was hit by a flood of guilt. He found himself thinking more and more of Marco, and less of his own painted freckled man – and at the worst possible times as well. 

Jean couldn’t even paint anymore.

After he drew Marco without meaning to that first night, Jean had been too scared to pick up another pencil. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , let himself draw Marco again, but he didn’t know if he had that much control over himself. Every time he tried to work on a new freckled man picture, his hand just shook over the paper, unable to capture anything that wasn’t Marco Bodt. 

So on this particular Thursday, when Jean woke up at the rather impressive time of 9am, he decided today would be the day he regained his resolve. His morning went rather promisingly: the hot water for his shower came on instantly, he had a whole fresh set of laundry ready, the morning telly was actually decent as he ate an equally decent breakfast (the toast had come out perfectly). So as he tied an apron around his waist and stepped into the workshop, he was feeling rather confident. 

Then he picked up a pencil. 

“Shit,” Hitting his forehead to chastise himself, Jean forced any worry of Marco vs. freckled man out of his mind. Really, there were hardly any differences between them at all. Yes, that’s right. They were pretty much the same. Jean was only imagining the differences that made his recent drawings Marco. It was all in his head… “Get it together, Kirschtein…”

And finally he seemed to. 

With the first line drawn, Jean’s hand only became surer; the quicker his arm moved, the more relaxed his smile became. He was sinking back into the world of his art, and sinking back into the freckled man he created. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he was almost finished with the majority of the freckled man’s main sketch – this time he was shirtless, twisting to look out of the canvas at Jean with a mocking smile. Ah, of course, the freckled man was probably laughing at how little Jean had drawn him recently. The exact scene he was in, Jean wasn’t too sure: perhaps the beach, or somewhere tropical? He’d decide later…

… Once he’d sorted this guy’s fucking torso out…

“Jean? Are you here?”

Why the hell couldn’t he get this damn torso right? How did bodies work? Was that how it was supposed to look when someone was turning round without a shirt? 

“Jean?”

Jesus fucking Christ, this shouldn’t be so difficult. He was going to have to go dig out some references at this rate. 

“Jean!”

“SHITTING MOTHERFUCKING JAEGER-STINKING FUCK!”

A hand had touched his shoulder and sent Jean flying off his stool in fright. He was just grateful he’d jumped to his feet and not just toppled down to the floor. 

Marco blinked at him, his hand still hovering out from when he’d tapped Jean. The two just stared at one another for some time before Marco’s sucked in his lips to try and hold back an all-too-obvious oncoming laughing fit. 

“Jesus Marco! Couldn’t you have said something?” Jean shouted, feeling his cheeks heat up. 

“I did!” Marco sniggered. “You were totally absorbed, huh?”

“Well… yeah…” 

As Jean recollected himself, Marco took the opportunity to examine the rough outline on Jean’s easel. He gave a small hum of approving – one that Jean had become all too used to hearing around this guy – and then took a step back. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to throw you off. But, do you mind if I watch?”

Pouting slightly, Jean glanced at the sketch. “I don’t mind, but I doubt I’m going to get much done.”

“Oh… sorry…”

“Huh? Oh no! Not because of you!” Jean cried, desperately trying to reassure the downtrodden-looking Marco. He scratched the back of his head and tapped on the easel. “I’m going to have to go searching for references for this. I can’t seem to get the twist in the torso right.”

“Ah… Where do you keep your references? Somewhere in here?” Marco began glancing at the far end of the workshop at the stacks of boxes. 

“Nah, the references in here are mainly for backgrounds. Human references will be shoved in a spare room somewhere; I don’t usually need them for this guy anymore but...” Jean’s expression softened, his disappointment in himself seeping through his features. “I can’t seem to grasp him right now…”

Marco’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he stared at the drawing for a while. Jean stood silently, waiting for the journalist to explain what was going through his mind to make him look so thoughtful. 

Eventually, Marco started speaking. His voice slightly reserved, unsure. “Would… I work?” 

“Huh?”

“As a reference,” Marco glanced back in Jean’s direction, tugging at his jacket. “It’d save you going on a search, and I mean… it already sort of looks like me, doesn’t it?”

_That’s the problem_ , Jean thought to himself. His teeth clenched together as his eyes stared wandering down to Marco’s chest – imaging just what was under his shirt. Well… maybe if he got Marco to model for the drawing, it would prove to Jean that Marco and the freckled man looked the same… that the person Jean had been dreaming about wasn’t Marco after all…

“If you’re ok with it… then I guess it’s fine,” Jean muttered, finding his eyes falling to his feet in embarrassment. 

Marco gave a light chuckle and started shrugging off his jacket. “Good thing it’s warm in here.”

Jean could only give a mumble in reply. He started fiddling around with the pencils on his workbench, keeping his back to Marco as he heard the shuffling of the shirt being unbuttoned. 

Shit, his heart was _not_ beating heavier…

“How do you want me?”

_Any way going_ , Jean’s inner thoughts screamed. Forcing himself to look back round, he desperately tried to keep his line of sight on Marco’s face or off to the side somewhere. There was no way in hell Jean was going to let himself even have a single unnecessary glance at Marco’s bare chest. 

“Um… stand over there, with your back to me,” Jean motioned him forward a little, and Marco followed his directions exactly. Jean made sure to stick to his place by his easel. 

Once Marco was in place, he kicked his shoes off (‘in case he was going to be standing for a while’ he claimed), and then glanced over his shoulder at Jean. “This ok?”

God, Jean really didn’t want have to analyse Marco’s torso… it was much too distracting: the lines of his shoulder blades, the curves of his waist.

“Um… face a tad more to the right… yeah, like that. And then turn your shoulders more, not just your head… That’s good. Think you can stay like that?”

“Yeah, this is fine.”

Mentally kicking himself for feeling so worked up over this, Jean sat down and focused on his drawing instead. It wasn’t like he hadn’t used live models before, so why should this be bothering him? Marco was a huge help: he had the exact same looks and body as the freckled man… so Jean was just using him as a reference… that was all.

Except when he glanced up to actually make use of this reference, the differences between them were only becoming clearer. 

Marco stood there, his expression relaxed, waiting for Jean to just get on. He was completely oblivious to Jean’s stares, or the way Jean’s hands were shaking as he started to redraw the torso on his drawing. 

“Could you lower your chin a little?” Jean asked, frantically trying to focus. 

“Like this?”

“No, no, higher and to the right a little.”

“Now?”

“Ah… hang on…”

Sticking the pencil behind his ear, Jean stood and made his way over to Marco. The freckled idiot was looking at him in amusement – like he was enjoying seeing Jean as the perfecting artist, or something. Yes, Jean could work with that; be a perfectionist over the model’s stance and maybe he’d stop looking at Marco as a different person…

Lightly taking Marco’s chin, Jean started manoeuvring him into the right position. Marco’s head moved at the slightest touch, turning and lifting whichever way Jean urged him to. The artist kept his eyes fixed on the chin and the jawline until he thought he had it right, and then looked up to try and check how it looked. 

The smile on Marco’s face was gone, so was the humour in his eyes. Instead, he stared back at Jean with a gaze that sent shivers down his spine. Marco had this intensity that Jean just couldn’t look away from. 

The longer he stared, the more he really started noticing the differences between Marco and his freckled man. Marco wasn’t as broad, nor were his muscles as well-defined. He was slightly trimmer, and his freckles were a little more concentrated across his shoulders. As Jean’s fingers traced Marco’s jawline, he realised it was softer. Marco showed a wider range of emotions than the freckled man did… and most of them weren’t ones Jean believed he could mirror in a painting.

No. Jean couldn’t see Marco as someone. The moment he saw Marco as anything other than a real-life copy of his freckled man, Jean had to admit that he’d been having those indecent thoughts about this poor journalist… He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that.

Yet his eyes didn’t stray from Marco’s. His fingers remained dancing along Marco’s jaw, trailing down the side of his neck. His body was still close enough to Marco’s that he felt the other’s body heat. It was like he was sinking into a daze, unable to really think of anything but the feel of Marco’s skin and the look in his eyes.

Marco briefly wet his lips. “Jean…” His hand lifted, brushing the backs of his fingers down Jean’s cheek. 

_Slap._

Jean hadn’t even realised he’d smacked Marco’s hand away until he was staring up at the shock and pain in those dark eyes. His pencil had fallen from behind his ear at his sudden movement. 

“S-sorry,” Marco muttered, immediately taking a step back. 

_It was my fault,_ was what Jean wanted to say, but it just didn’t come out. He could only stand there – his had still hovering in there air from hitting Marco’s away, his whole body starting to tremble. 

“Jean, I… I didn’t mean to–”

“Thanks for your help,” Jean cut him off. “I think I’ve got it now…”

He scooped his pencil off the floor and rushed back across to his stool. He doubted his legs would have lasted much longer if he hadn’t sat, and the easel gave him something to stare at that wasn’t Marco. 

“Sorry, but I really need to focus on work right now,” No. This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Why the hell was it coming out of his mouth? “Could you not come by for a while? You can just ring me if there’s anything you really need for the article.”

He could hear the sharp intake of breath from Marco, but he refused to look up and see what expression the journalist was wearing. 

“Sure. No problem.” 

Jean didn’t look away from his drawing as Marco moved around the room, pulling his shirt back on. He paused as he opened the door back into the kitchen, but again Jean refused to look. 

“See you, Jean.”

And like that, Marco was gone. Jean remained frozen in place for some time after; the drawing in front of him starting to blur into nothing as he tried to keep his mind empty. His efforts were futile though, and a clatter echoed through the workshop as his pencil fell out of his hand to the floor again. 

Bending over, Jean dropped his head into his hands, cursing every atom of his being. 

He was an artist. He was obsessed with a totally imagined freckled man who he’d been drawing for years. That man was made up. He could imagine and dream about a made up person all he wanted. 

Marco?

Marco was real.

Marco was a person. A friend. 

Jean couldn’t dream about Marco. 

And he absolutely could not fall in love with him. 

So… why was that happening?


	5. Take Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After no one hears from him for nearly a week, Jean has visitors who don't quite expect to find what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't originally meant to exist - the story was meant to jump straight to what will be the next one... but then Jean was being angsty and... yeah... Here we are!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com) here, and expect the next chapter rather soon as it's the one I've been looking forward to writing for AGES. ~~it may also let the story live up to its rating~~
> 
> Enjoy ^^

Nothing worked. 

Nothing. 

Music didn’t work, but silence was torture. References didn’t work, but it wasn’t like he had inspiration. He couldn’t paint, he couldn’t draw, he couldn’t even doodle. Sitting, standing, lying down, nothing made a difference. Jean remained stuck in a hole; no drive, no ability, completely unable to get anything done. 

After a while, one of the lights burnt out, leaving the workshop even dimmer than it already was. Jean had no idea how long he’d been shut up in there; his stomach didn’t even rumble with hunger anymore, his head ached with exhaustion, his eyes could barely stay open most of the time. 

The workshop floor was littered in crumpled pieces of paper, broken pencils that Jean made no effort to sharpen or fix. At some point he’d knocked his paints over and they still covered the floor like a smashed rainbow. It was amazing the easel was still in one piece after the amount of times Jean had kicked it or thrown it across the room in frustration. His usual stool had been given similar treatment, and had quite a few new dints to its name.

How long had it been since he’d ate? How long had it been since he’d showered? Slept? Talked to someone? 

As he sat on the ground in front of the fallen easel, he ran his hands through his hair – pulling at the grease-covered ends and not even noticing when his scalp started to hurt.

Why?

Why was nothing working? Why couldn’t he draw anything? 

This had never happened before. He’d had art block, sure, who hadn’t? But this was different. 

This was a complete inability to even draw his freckled man. 

“Shit…” His throat hurt as he muttered the word. How long had it been since he’d had a drink? He was sure he’d had a coffee vaguely recently… Maybe that was why his head hurt so much…

No, he couldn’t go back into the house. He couldn’t leave this damned workshop until he’d at least sketched something. Hell, he’d be happy with just a rough doodle. Just… _something_.

There was a light knocking on the door that Jean originally thought he’d imagined. A moment later, the curtain was pushed aside as someone slowly opened the door. 

“Jean…?” Ah, that was Armin’s voice. That probably meant Jean had been in here a while. Sure enough, the small figure stepped inside the workshop and immediately gasped. “Jesus Jean! What’s happened?”

Armin ran over, kneeling down beside Jean and reached out to touch his arm. Jean tugged his arm away, scowling at the annoying panic that was filling Armin’s eyes.

“Nothing. I’m just working,” he said – though his voice came out cracked and painful yet again. 

“This doesn’t look like working! Get up, now!”

He felt Armin’s hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him up, but Jean felt too exhausted to make his legs do much work. “Heh… don’t think I can…”

“Christ…” Armin’s hands vanished, and he started running back towards the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Jean watched as the blonde vanished back into his house, and then let himself fall back to the floor. Staring up at the ceiling he chuckled: he was making Armin worry… he was such a bastard… 

Before he knew it, his eyelids and lowered and he sighed out, praying that if he was going to fall asleep now his dreams would be graced with the presence of his freckled man. 

_Not_ Marco Bodt. 

But a moment later (well, it had probably been a little more than a moment), he reopened his eyes and found his head being propped up by someone’s lap. The face that scowled down at him was the lovely Mikasa herself. 

‘Lucky me…’ Jean tried to say, but the only sound that escaped his throat was an awful gaspy noise. 

“He’s awake,” Mikasa said to whoever else was in the room. 

“Good, make him drink this.” There was Armin’s voice again. 

Mikasa was suddenly holding a cup, and placed it beside her on the floor for a moment so she could start pushing Jean up to a sitting position. He moved as her hands ordered – cringing as he felt the wave of pain hit him when his head moved. Still, at least he managed to stay sitting upright by himself (well… almost by himself, Mikasa had to keep a hand on his back to stop him toppling over). She pressed the cup into his hands and he stared down at the clear water inside. 

“Drink it all,” she told him. Her voice was low, authoritative, and the coldness in her eyes left Jean with no confidence to go against her. After the first gulp, he realised just how perfect the water felt on his dry throat, and the cup was empty in seconds. 

“He’s probably more hungry and tired than dehydrated,” Shit, was that Eren’s voice coming from somewhere behind him? Jean peered over his shoulder and saw he was right; Eren was standing peering at the dirty mugs sitting on the table by the kettle. “He’s had these in the past day or two, at least.”

“Just because you’re able to tell how long coffee has been left out, doesn’t mean I accept you leaving your mugs around the office for weeks, Eren,” Armin warned him – he was in the middle of picking up the pieces of paper littered around the room. 

“But my knowledge of old coffee has clearly saved Jean’s life!”

“Jean’s life wasn’t in danger,” Jean snorted – finally finding his voice again thanks to the water. He rubbed his eyes, glancing around at the much cleaner workshop. 

Armin wandered over and crouched on the ground opposite Jean and Mikasa. He pressed his palm against Jean’s forehead, which earned a glare from the artist.

“Well you don’t have a temperature,” Armin muttered, removing his hand. “But you really can’t do this again, Jean. You’ve been shut in here for nearly a week now.”

“I’m just trying to work.”

A sharp pain ran through his head; glancing over his shoulder he realised Mikasa had just hit him. She frowned. “Working doesn’t mean forgetting to take care of yourself.”

“Or personal hygiene, for that matter,” Eren added as he approached, mockingly pinching his nose. 

The trio fell silent when they realised Jean wasn’t even going to try and retort to Eren’s comment. They all exchanged concerned glances, and Eren knelt down with them, shaking Jean’s shoulder softly. 

“What’s going on, Jean?”

“I’m just trying to work,” Jean repeated. 

“This isn’t you working,” Armin shook his head. “I’ve seen you after you’ve been locked in here for over two weeks, but you still took care of yourself! This is… this is different.”

Letting out a groan, Jean dropped his head into his hands. Really, he was a total dick for not appreciating how worried his friends were – but at the end of the day, people trying to talk to him was the last thing he needed right now. What he needed was time to just sit and work. Time to get back on track and get his thoughts sorted out. 

Get his thoughts off Marco Bodt. 

“Look…” he said with a sigh. “Right now, I just need to work. I can’t let myself walk away from this place until I’ve at least gotten back on my feet.”

“You can’t do that without taking care of yourself!” Armin protested.

“I mean, back on my feet art wise,” Jean lifted his head and looked straight at his old friend. He didn’t want to think about what sort of face Armin was looking back at: bagged eyes, sunken cheeks, dry lips? “Please. I have to do this.”

He could see the reluctance passing over Armin’s eyes as he tried to come up with a reply. Mikasa and Eren stayed silent; apparently trusting Armin enough to leave the decision with him. Really, Jean could have laughed; when had Armin become the person in charge of his life?

Well, there were worse people to place your faith in, he supposed. 

Finally, Armin’s expression relaxed. He gave a small nod. “Ok, Jean. If you’re really sure you have to keep going with this.”

“Thank–”

“But! I have conditions. You have to go have a shower right now first. And you have to have a drink beside you at all times. I’ll get Sasha to cook up some meals and bring them over; she won’t be allowed to leave until she’s seen you eat it all.”

Jean narrowed his eyes. “You’re giving me Sasha as a babysitter?”

“She’s got the most free time,” Armin shrugged. “Finally, if you haven’t finished whatever the hell you’re doing in one week, you have to give up.”

“You know I can’t–”

“You either agree or I drag you out of here and make you live with Eren.”

“WHAT?” (Apparently Eren was even more against the idea than Jean. As what followed was a violent stream of curses that Armin refused to react to).

When Eren had finally shut up (thanks to a rather painful looking punch from Mikasa), Armin returned his focus to Jean. “You overwork yourself all the time. It would probably do you good to have a few months off from your art.”

“A few _months_?” Jean could barely get the words out, they clogged his throat like some vile food he couldn’t swallow. 

“We’ll discuss that nearer the time,” Armin stood, grabbing Jean’s arm without even asking and hauling him upwards. Jean let himself be pulled him this time, though he was mortified to see he still had to cling to Armin since his own legs offered little support. “For now, get a shower – or even better, a bath – and I’m going to cook a proper meal for you. You’ll eat that, and then you can get back to work if you’re that desperate.”

The four of them trudged back into the house, not letting Jean take a second glance at the workshop. Armin passed Jean over to Eren, who was ordered to run a bath and force the artist into it no matter what. As they vanished upstairs, Mikasa leant against the counter and watched Armin start to search the cupboards for something to turn into a decent meal. The two remained silent – Armin starting to work on a stir fry, mainly consisting of frozen vegetables that he didn’t seem to approve of – and after ten minutes or so Eren returned. 

“I draw the line at washing his hair for him,” he grunted as he fell into one of the seats at the table.

“Thanks for that, Eren,” Armin smiled from the cooker. 

A silence hovered over the three of them yet again, each deep in their own thoughts. 

“I don’t get it,” Mikasa finally said. “He’s never done this before. Art block or no art block.”

“I don’t even understand why he’s claiming he can’t work, or whatever,” Eren added, drumming his fingers against the table top mindlessly. “I mean, all those scrap pieces of paper he’d thrown around – every single one of them had a pretty decent drawing on. I mean, sure a few of them were rough sketches, but that’s what all his art looks like to begin with.”

Mikasa nodded. “I’d even say some of those drawings were better than his usual ones.”

“It’s not their quality he’s angry at,” Armin muttered, turning the gas on the hob off with a click. His eyebrows were knotted together, thoughts dirtied with indecision. “It’s what he’s drawing.”

“What he’s drawing?” Eren asked, propping his head on his hand. “So he’s sick of drawing that same guy over and over again?”

Mikasa had a finger on her chin, silently trying to work out what Armin meant. Realisation quickly crossed her features. “Oh… I see…”

Armin sighed and began plating up four portions of the stir fry. “I should have known it would’ve thrown Jean off. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner now…”

“Huh? What are you two on about?” Eren pouted, angry he’d been left out of the loop. 

Mikasa helped carry the plates to the table, and they sat down to wait for Jean to appear again. 

“Those drawings in the workshop weren’t of the freckled man we usually see,” Mikasa explained to her still oblivious brother. 

“You guys are blind,” Eren scoffed, digging into his meal. With his mouth full, he continued. “I mean, they were better than usual – but it was still Mr Freckles.”

Armin shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. It’s hard to tell, but there’s… subtle differences.”

“The appearance isn’t even the most obvious difference,” Mikasa added. A small smile crawled onto her lips. “It was the atmosphere around them.”

“Yeah…” Armin agreed, catching the smile from her. “The atmosphere is certainly the biggest difference…”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Eren complained. 

Neither answered him, but they did exchange a smile before getting back to their food. Eren didn’t get a chance to press them further, as Jean reappeared in a fresh set of clothes and damp hair. He barely said anything as he sat down and started demolishing the food in front of him. 

Not much else was said at all, actually, as once the food was done and they (Mikasa and Armin) washed up, the trio from Shiganshina said their goodbyes and headed off. Armin lingered as Eren and Mikasa headed out to the car, and turned to Jean with a rather pitiful smile. 

“I’ll be sending people out to check up on you,” he said. “Remember, I’m only giving you a week.”

Jean rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, sure thing _Mom_.”

Armin rolled his eyes just like Jean and began to head off. As he watched the blonde leave, Jean started to feel bad he hadn’t shown his gratitude properly. Not just to Armin, but Mikasa and Eren too. Hell, Eren had actually ran him a bath and put him in it… the idiot must have been seriously worried about Jean to do that. 

The words tumbled out of Jean’s mouth before he’d really noticed. “Thank you.”

Armin turned back, his eyes wide in surprise, but his lips turned up in a grin. “It’s nothing, Jean.”

Somewhat pleased that he’d at least thanked him, Jean went to shut the front door and head back to his workshop. Then, just as the door was about to click shut, Armin spoke again. 

“And I’m sorry, Jean.”

Though he pulled the door back open to see what Armin had meant, the blonde had already gotten in the car and was pulling out of Jean’s drive. Jean watched them go, before deciding the last thing he needed was right now was worry over cryptic messages from Armin. Instead, ignoring the worry that was reappearing in his stomach, he returned to the workshop. 

The place was indeed a little cleaner than it had been before, but Armin and the others had simply piled all those damned pieces of thrown away drawings on the table. Trudging over to them, he picked up the first one. 

The face that stared back at him was so wrong, it only reminded Jean the reasons why he’d tossed it aside. Just like every single one of these fucking drawings or sketches. 

Marco Bodt. 

Marco Bodt. 

Marco Bodt. 

He was sick of that name. He was sick of that face. Yet it was all he could think about, all he could see, all he could create. 

Dropping the drawing back down, Jean moved over to his easel and stool – now both upright in their proper places. A fresh sheet of paper was on the easel waiting for him. So he sat and took a deep breath. 

He had a week. One single week to get past this Marco Bodt roadblock and draw his freckled man once again. He could do it. 

He _had_ to do it.


	6. Let's Play Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lack of sleep catches up to Jean, and he wakes up to find himself faced with a game of pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it would be up quickly... 
> 
> Smut a-hoy!
> 
> [Tumblr is here](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com) if you are interested, and I hope you enjoy! ^^

He couldn’t do it. 

Jean only knew that five days had already passed because he’d had five meals brought to him by Sasha. She always hung about for a good hour or so making sure he ate – talking nonsensical things and hogging his TV or something. Connie came with her every now and then, which was always even more hectic. Still, Jean was glad Armin had told them to visit; Jean was almost certain he would have just forgotten to eat if they hadn’t come round. They’d usually appear about six in the evening, and Jean always ate with them and then had a quick shower, before diving straight back into attempting to work. 

Yet, even with this new system, Jean was never able to create his freckled man. He was at a loss for what to do, and sick to death of seeing the wrong face staring back at him from the canvas. 

He was exhausted. He couldn’t sleep no matter how much he tried, and the futile attempts at working sapped what little confidence he had keeping him going forward. 

So, sometime on the sixth day, he’d once again hit rock bottom. This time though, it wasn’t his body that had given in, it was his mind. He sat on the stool, staring at the latest piece of paper he’d been drawing on – now torn and scribbled on after Jean had realised he’d drawn fucking Marco Bodt yet again. 

He was just so tired…

“Again…” he muttered, tearing the paper from the easel and reaching to the table beside him to grab a new one. 

“Again.”

He picked up another pencil and started sketching. 

“Again.”

Draw _him_. Draw _his_ jaw. Draw _his_ eyes. Draw _his_ freckles. Draw _his_ smile.

“Draw him…”

The pencil slipped out of his hold, but his wrist kept moving as if it was still there. 

“Again.”

His eyes really hurt. He had to let his blinks last longer, just because of the relief that filled him when his eyelids shut.

Was that a knock?

“Um… hello?”

A voice?

Jean couldn’t really tell anymore. His arm dropped to his side as it began to ache from the effort it took to hold it up. The world started shifting. The stool moved from beneath him and the ground desperately rushed to try and catch him. 

Oh… no… he was falling. 

“JEAN!”

The ground was cool beneath him and his head screamed in pain when he hit. He tried to sit back up, but his body was just too tired. His eyes wouldn’t stay open, even though he wanted to see if feet were really running towards him from across the workshop. So, giving in to exhaustion, Jean let the darkness wrap around him, even though he felt hands shaking him. 

 

Jean never truly appreciated sleep until that moment. It was pure bliss, finally trapped in that unconscious state after weeks of being unable to properly rest. Being completely enclosed in the black; he couldn’t think, couldn’t worry, couldn’t fail here. He’d escaped that never-ending cycle of drawing-failing-drawing-failing. He was finally able to just forget for a while. 

Here he didn’t have to think of his art. He just had to lie there, focusing on the hands against his skin. The warm touch of palms stroking down his sides, fingers trailing along his shoulders, lips pressed against his neck. 

He gasped as a tongue ran across his chest, arching up to try and get more contact or friction. He wasn’t disappointed, as he arched straight up into the knee that was between his legs, a shock of pleasure ran through him. The tongue didn’t give up either, teasing and sucking at his nipples, sending Jean further and further out of his mind. 

Just as he began to open his eyelids, desperate to see the person doing this, a hand clamped over his eyes. Jean reached up, pulling and scratching at the hand to make it move, but it had no effect. Meanwhile, the unknown touches kept attacking his body. 

 

“Who–”

Jean’s eyes opened. He was staring up at a ceiling he recognised, atop a mattress he recognised, surrounding by pillows he recognised. There was no hand trying to cover his eyes, and no hand on his body. 

There was, however, a slight tightness in his boxers that he decided to just ignore for now. 

His whole body seemed to scream in protest as Jean made himself sit up so he could look around properly. Sure enough, he was in his own bedroom; the only light in the room was coming from the open door that led into the lit hallway. The curtains were closed, but judging by the lack of light around their edges, it was night time. He didn’t quite understand how he was here, or why he was here, but he guessed Sasha and Connie had dragged him to bed, or something. 

Footsteps started making themselves up the stairs and along the hall to Jean’s bedroom. His eyes still hurt when he kept them open, so he rubbed them in the hopes that would ease them at least a little. 

And then the last person he expected to see walked into his room. 

Marco looked almost as surprised to see Jean sitting up as Jean was too see the journalist in his house. The two stared at each other for a moment, before Marco recovered from the shock and gave a nervous smile. 

He moved into the room and placed a tray he was holding on the bedside table next to Jean. On it was a glass of water, two steaming cups of coffee, and a plate covered in tin foil (mince and dumpling, Jean guessed from the smell). 

“Sasha said you were expecting the dinner delivery…” Marco muttered, motioning to the tray. 

“Yeah…” Jean opted for a sip of water for now, and glanced around the room. “What time is it?”

“Nine. You’ve been out for nearly ten hours now.”

Placing the glass down, Jean rubbed his forehead, trying to put his thoughts together. “I fell asleep?”

Marco frowned. “Jean… you _collapsed_. I would have called an ambulance, but Armin said not to.”

“Armin?”

“He rung me. He said you were working yourself too hard, and that I should visit.”

Yeah, Jean’s thoughts weren’t coming together at all. He bent forward, running his hands through his hair. He groaned; why had Armin sent Marco? _Marco_ of all people. Well, it wasn’t like Armin knew what was going through Jean’s head, so maybe he just assumed that the two were mates after all the times Marco had popped round. 

“Are you ok?”

The moment Marco’s fingers touched Jean’s shoulder, Jean leapt aside, twisting to make every effort to keep away from the journalists touch. Marco looked almost hurt, and drew his hand back. His fingers had barely grazed Jean, and yet it left a burning sensation across his shoulder that painfully reminded him he still had a certain issue down south. He shuffled slightly, trying to make sure Marco didn’t notice. 

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” Jean muttered, refusing to even let himself look at Marco right now. 

Marco’s breathing had turned slightly shaky. “Are you in the middle of a project?”

“Ha. I wish…” Jean said coldly. The disgust at his own inability to draw filled his stomach again – so strong he could almost taste it in his mouth. The more Jean’s mind lingered on the topic, the more he just wanted to curl up under his sheets and forget it all. He didn’t want Marco here right now. Jean felt like he’d somehow polluted the completely innocent guy with his own awful thoughts. 

Jean drew his knees to his chest, and buried his face in his arms. “I can’t… I can’t draw…”

“What?”

“I can’t draw! He’s… he’s gone from my head and I can’t draw him no matter how hard I try!”

“I’m… I’m sure it’s just a bit of a block. Everyone gets them, no matter what their prof–”

Jean’s head snapped up, he glowered at Marco. He looked straight at that kind, freckled face and wished he could hate it. All he wanted was to despise Marco, to not care about Marco, to return his imaginary affections back to an equally imaginary man – at least then Jean could handle it, he could control his fantasies and not be ashamed about it. 

He gritted his teeth. “This is all your fault.”

The pain that etched its way onto Marco’s face was horrific to watch. “W-what? What do you… mean?”

Jean could have laughed; he was watching all these new emotions appear on Marco’s face, ones that he’d never seen before, never even drawn before on his freckled man. He was bringing out these expressions in Marco, and they weren’t even ones he could appreciate – they just felt like knives to his chest. 

Shaking his head and dragging his eyes from Marco, Jean started to clamber out of the bed. His lower half was way too uncomfortable, and his mind even more so with Marco still hanging around. The longer he stayed here, the more Marco’s faces became engraved in his thoughts, blotting out whatever little Jean could remember of his freckled man. He headed straight for the bathroom, but that meant having to pass Marco, and as he did so the journalist reached out and grabbed Jean’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Jean… I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… just… please don’t hate me.”

_I don’t hate you, that’s the problem!_ Jean screamed in his head. He kept his back to Marco, but tried to wriggle out of his grip. Marco only held on tighter. 

“Please, tell me what I’ve done! I don’t want to be the one doing this to you.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore!” Jean yelled back. “I can’t see or even think of my freckled man anymore, never mind actually _paint_ him! So it just doesn’t matter!”

“Oh…” Marco’s voice cracked. “I see…”

“Good. So let me go, and just leave already.”

“Yeah… I understand…”

Jean went to look round, to try and work out why Marco’s voice was suddenly so chilling. Just as his head began to turn, he was hauled backwards with such a force he let out a panicked yelp and fell back onto his bed as his knees hit the edge. 

“What the fu–”

“I understand.”

Marco stood over him, staring down at Jean with eyes that just… didn’t seem right. 

“Marco…?” Jean asked as Marco began to lean down, his hand pushing Jean down by the shoulder to make him lie flat on his back. 

“I wasn’t aware you hated me so much that I put you off your perfect man.”

“Wait, what? Marco that’s–”

“It’s fine, Jean,” As one hand kept Jean pinned to the bed, Marco’s other one began undoing Jean’s trousers. Shit, and he was still pitching a tent. Marco held Jean’s gaze, even when he completely opened up Jean’s trousers. “All I have to do is make you remember the freckled man, right?”

“Marco–!”

“I said _it’s fine_.” 

The sharpness of Marco’s words froze Jean with fear. It wasn’t that Marco’s voice was stern, or powerful… it was the sadness in it that terrified him. He didn’t move when Marco’s hand stopped holding him down, or when Marco knelt on the ground, he just lay there trying to work out what was going on in Marco’s mind. 

Then his boxers were moved aside, and Jean felt hot breath on his dick. His whole body tensed, conflicted over what to feel. 

"Sto-"

“You were moaning in your sleep,” Marco muttered as his hands took a hold of Jean. “Why?”

Jean tried to hold his breath to keep it from becoming too heavy too quickly, not that it did much good as Marco’s hands began to move. “A… a dream.”

“Of your freckled man? So you can only see him when you pass out?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Well, think of him now.”

“What?”

“Pretend I’m him. I’m your freckled man, and he’s the one touching you,” Marco’s hands tightened a little, sending a shudder through Jean’s body. “I already look like him, so just pretend. Marco Bodt doesn’t exist, I’m not the man you hate. I’m your freckled man, that’s all.”

_No, you don’t understand,_ Jean thought. Marco had it wrong, he had it all wrong. What? Did he think that Jean hated him, and that because he looks like the freckled man, Jean had come to hate the freckled man because it reminded him of Marco? Did that even make sense? It was wrong. It was all wrong. They were different. They were so different. If anyone should be hated here, it should be Jean: he was the one who’d been imagining such indecent things about Marco. 

He wanted to voice his thoughts. He wanted to tell Marco he was wrong. Most of all, he wanted Marco to know that he wasn’t going to replace him as the freckled man in his mind. But Jean couldn’t find himself saying anything, as a warm tongue slid up the underside of his dick. 

Jean moaned, bucking his hips slightly, only for his hips to be held down. Marco’s tongue continued moving; licking, trailing, teasing. And then, his whole mouth wrapped around Jean. 

“Shit!” Jean gasped as the warmth wetness engulfed him. He found his arms pushing him up, reaching tentatively out to clutch Marco’s hair. He didn’t even try to hold back or quieten his panting; he was too busy focusing on what terribly brilliant things Marco was doing with his tongue. 

A moment later, Marco lifted his head up – his mouth coming off Jean with a lewd pop. Jean kept his fingers tight in his hair, but Marco frowned.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. “You’ll be able to imagine better.”

Jean didn’t want to imagine though, and he only closed his eyes for a moment until Marco’s mouth was back on him. He hummed, reopening his eyes and watching how Marco’s head bobbed, and how his own body shifted uncomfortably on the ground. At that moment, Jean wasn’t even sorry for his inability to picture the freckled man – if this was really happening, it was a thousand times more amazing than anything Jean could pretend in his head. 

Marco moved faster, working Jean’s dick with his hand at the same time, and producing the most obscene noises that only made Jean feel every little touch more. Another hand ran down Jean’s leg briefly, and then he watched as Marco started to touch himself through his pants. How Jean would have killed to help out, but Marco would have only gotten angry if he knew Jean’s eyes were open. 

With one particularly hard suck, Jean’s whole body twitched and he let out a needy groan. “Fuck… harder… do it harder.”

Marco obliged, going faster too whilst he was at it. Jean’s voice started leaking out even more, and he tugged at Marco’s hair simply for something to do as he lost the ability to even think properly. 

Jean could feel it building in his gut, the pressure of the end approaching and he immediately tried to pull Marco’s head away. “S-stop! Move… I–!”

Marco only bore down harder, leaving Jean at a total loss for words other than sharp gasps and lustful moans. He tried to hold back, push Marco off him, but the journalist made no show to move. 

Clenching his teeth to hold down the noise, Jean simply grunted as he hit his peak. His body shuddered, trembled as he came with Marco’s mouth still tight around him. He could barely even process that last bit as he started to come down from the high. 

A moment later, Marco’s mouth had vanished, and Jean glanced between his knees to see Marco’s face contorted as he tried to swallow the load in his mouth. 

“Shit, spit it out!” Jean cried, reaching forward to try and open Marco’s mouth by force if necessary, but it was too late. Marco had gulped, and was now coughing into his hand. Jean didn’t know if it was the taste or the amount that had shocked Marco (it better not have just been the timing, since Jean _had_ tried to warn him). 

He sat there on the edge of the bed, staring open-mouthed as Marco began wiping his chin. He didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed about everything – he was too confused. 

Marco glanced up at him, but dropped his gaze quickly and stood up. “There. Now you have a good memory about your freckled man.”

He started to leave, but Jean grabbed his arm. “Marco, wait…”

“Don’t worry, Jean, I’ll keep my distance from now on.”

Marco didn’t wait to hear anything else, no matter how much Jean tried to explain or protest. He yanked his arm away and quickly left the room. Jean followed after, trying redo his pants as he went no matter how uncomfortable it felt, but Marco only moved faster when he saw Jean was following him. 

Before Jean could even get down the stairs, Marco was out the front door.

Jean dropped, letting himself sit on the stairs staring at the door like it had just cruelly blocked out the most important thing in the world to him… which… maybe it had. 

This had gotten so far beyond messed up, that Jean didn’t even know where to start. This wasn’t a puzzle where he could just start with the corners, and get started quickly. It was more like a smashed glass; there was no obvious place to begin, and all it was doing was cutting him. 

And he was so tired…

Maybe a bit more sleep would help him get his thoughts straightened out. 

Well… not _straightened_ out, but sorted.

After he slept, yes, then he’d work it all out. He’d work out what to do about Marco. He’d work out what to feel about Marco. He’d work out what to say to Marco. 

And he’d work out whether he’d really heard tears in Marco’s last words just then.


	7. Office Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a glimpse into the workings of a rather rowdy office, and the workings of a rather stressed out freckled journalist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chapter from our favourite freckled boy's POV! This may as well be chapter 6.5, it's that short, but you'll understand when you read it!  
> The next chapter is due out this weekend (I've made a schedule for myself for my fics I'm trying to stick to!), so there's that!
> 
> My [tumblr is here](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com). Thanks everyone for reading! ^^ Please enjoy.

A man sat at his office desk. The clock on his computer said it was around one in the afternoon, and that meant all his co-workers would be returning from their lunch break soon. This man was dreading their return, as they would no doubt start questioning why he was still sitting with his head on his desk, like he had since he’d arrived at work this morning. He was not in the mood to try and explain it to them, especially since the two people who shared his office were renowned chatter-boxes. 

This man was Marco Bodt. Journalist (in training, he supposed), avid fan of terrible movies, and hopelessly falling for another man who was in love with paintings. 

He also supposed, after yesterday, he would have to add ‘sexual assaulter’ to that list… huh?

Marco groaned loudly again into his mouse pad as he relived the incident in Jean’s house. He’d been killing himself these past few weeks since Jean told him not to stop by – trying to work out what he’d done wrong, if he’d offended or hurt the artist in some way – and it was only because of a phone call from Armin Arlet, that gallery owner, that Marco stopped by. Armin had said Jean was in a right state, and that he believed Marco should try and check up on him. Marco had done… and Jean had been in a much worse state than he’d expected. 

In fact, he’d collapsed almost as soon as Marco had stepped into the workshop. Marco couldn’t ever think of a time he’d been as panicked or frightened over another person in his life, but Armin was adamant that Marco shouldn’t take him to the hospital. 

So, Marco put Jean to bed, cleaned the house up, Jean’s friend had come over with food that Marco got ready; it was all going fine, and Jean seemed to not be too ill. 

But then he woke up. 

And that’s when things went downhill. 

Very _very_ quickly.

Oh god… Marco decided he really shouldn’t have come to work today – it wasn’t like he was able to concentrate on anything after last night, never mind do the article about Jean. The empty word document was open and waiting on his computer, as it had for the past three weeks or so, but every time Marco tried to write something, it didn’t seem to work. His boss had told him not to worry about how long it took – that they hadn’t announced Jean’s special would be out in a particular issue, so there was no real rush if Marco was struggling. His bosses were really too kind. 

There was a ruckus that Marco could hear growing closer. He allowed himself one last groan of self-pity before falling silent, just as the two girls who shared this office with him walked in. 

“Have you even moved Marco?” Hannah asked, slumping into her desk. 

“No,” was Marco’s huffed reply. 

“Well, you need to have something so here,” Mina placed a coffee and a packet of crisps somewhere by Marco’s head – the same thing Marco had gotten her whenever she was upset. “And you should also just tell us what happened already.”

“Is this about Monsieur Artist?” Hannah asked through a mouthful of food – not even attempting to put on a fake French accent. 

Lifting his head just enough to judge what flavour the crisps were (cheese and onion, good), Marco felt his chest tighten just at the thought. “Yeah… I went to see him yesterday…”

“And?” Mina asked, suddenly looking very excited. 

Hannah also looked significantly more interested, and both girls dragged their chairs over to sit at Marco’s desk with him, eyes wide with anticipation for the gossip. These two were really the only people Marco could talk to about these sorts of situation – and though Mina was one of the nicest people you’ll meet, and Hannah had been in a successful steady relationship since she was thirteen… neither were that good at love counselling. 

“I’m pretty sure he hates me,” Marco sighed. He picked up the coffee, but did little more than just let it warm his hands. 

“Maybe there’s just some big misunderstanding going on,” Mina offered. “I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”

“Well, if he didn’t before he sure as hell does now.”

“Why?”

“I…” Yet again, Marco groaned at the memory. He had to put the coffee down so he could rub his eyes. Though, maybe he deserved to rub his eyes with piping hot coffee… The girls both kept a steady stare, waiting for him to expand. “I… got upset and… sort of forced myself… on him…”

Hannah rearranged her jacket a little, brows furrowing. “You… what, kissed him?”

“Some people might call it a type of kiss, I guess…?”

It took a while. 

“Shit, Marco, seriously?” Hannah screeched, nearly jumping out of her seat. Mina slapped a hand over her mouth in shock. Marco just let his head fall back to the table. 

“Geez… I think you took my advice a little too, er, frankly?” Hannah coughed. Just that week previous, when Marco had first spilled to them about his growing feelings towards Jean, Hannah had (half-jokingly) told Marco to just get over his worries and ‘fuck the guys brains out until he can’t think of anyone else but you’. At the time, Marco had been horrified by the suggestion… he felt he couldn’t say anything about it anymore.

“I was upset!”

“That’s not really an excuse…”

“Hush, Hannah, you’re not helping!” Mina finally shouted. “What happened, Marco?”

“Hey! I don’t want to hear about that!”

“I meant what made him upset! Shut up, Hannah, or go outside.”

Lifting his head again, Marco was somewhat relieved to see his friends looked more concerned than judgemental. He was judging himself enough for everyone anyway.

“You guys know what he draws, right?” He waited for the nods, before continuing. “When I went round, he was in this… real bad state. That guy who called me up said he hadn’t been sleeping or eating properly. He collapsed when I first got there and… when he woke up…”

His voice cracked. Marco was just surprised at it as Mina and Hannah seemed. Still, the more he noticed, the more he realised that his nose was tingling. His nose always tingled just before he cried… 

Mina’s hand covered his own. She smiled at him. 

So he took a deep breath and continued. 

“He woke up, and started talking about how he couldn’t draw anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to draw that man… and he said it was all my fault,” Marco was impressed at his ability to keep his voice steady… (ish), but his eyes were watering up anyway. Mina squeezed his hand reassuringly, but that only made it worse. It made it real. “I look exactly like the man he paints. And now he’s met me, and got to know me… and I’ve ruined it.”

The first tear fell. Marco could only laugh as he looked down and saw the little droplet on the table. Saying it all out loud to someone just made it all the more real… all the more painful. 

“He can’t stand his paintings now, because they remind him or me. And I’m not this man of his dreams. I’m not the person he imagined, and I’m not the person he wants… He hates me. And so I’ve made him hate his own art.”

And so everything came crashing down on him. There, in his office, Marco Bodt broke down. Crying as his two co-workers rushed to their feet and huddled him into their arms. He couldn’t do anything but mutter “I ruined everything for him” over and over into his hands. 

Finally, there reached a point where the tears just didn’t come out anymore. Mina rushed to the bathroom and returned in record speed with a whole toilet roll to mop Marco up with. Hannah rubbed his back as he tried to clean himself up. 

“… I still don’t see why you blew him.”

“Hannah!”

“What! I’m just curious how Marco went from hurt little weepy puppy, into immediate blow job giver!”

“Does it really look like now is the time to bring that up?”

Marco found himself laughing at the argument and waved Mina away. “It’s ok. Though, I can’t promise my explanation is anything short of fucked up…”

“All the more interesting for us,” Hannah smirked – though there was something in her eyes that told Marco she was actually trying to lighten his mood up. 

With a sigh, Marco tried to put what happened into words. It was hard – hell, he hadn’t even realised what he’d done until he was half-way home. It was like Jean’s words had hit him so hard, he’d been temporarily knocked out, and some sort of darker Marco took over for a moment. 

“I just… I didn’t want him to hate his paintings because of me. I wanted to leave him with a happy memory… or at least, that’s what I told myself,” Marco smiled weakly, despairing over how pitiful he was. “I think I just… I wanted him to look at me. He used to always look at his drawings with these eyes. It was like he truly loved the man in those pictures. I’ve never seen anyone look at something with such… _adoration_ … I wanted him to look at me with those eyes.”

Though she’d been joking a moment ago, Hannah wasn’t smiling anymore. Both she and Mina looked a little stunned, but mainly heartbroken at hearing Marco say those words. It was Marco who had laugh and try and cheer them up again. 

“And he’d been having a little bit of a hot dream after he collapsed, so apparently in my moment of insanity I thought that would be the easiest and quickest way to make him look at me like I was his painted man.”

“And did he?” Mina spoke in a whisper, as if she was listening to a fairy tale romance. 

Marco shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know… I tried not to look at him.”

“Well that was stupid,” Hannah scoffed, slapping Marco’s shoulder softly. 

“As if everything else I did before wasn’t too?”

“True.”

The three returned to a slightly more professional atmosphere after that. Mina asked Marco if he wanted her to put a little of her makeup on him to disguise the fact he’d been crying, but he laughed off the offer and assured her that it wasn’t that big a deal. He checked his eyes in his reflection on his phone, but they didn’t look too red – he could always feign allergies if someone noticed, anyway. 

As much as the trio got back to their own work (luckily too, since other people started returning from lunch and came in and out of their office a lot more), there was still something of an air between them. It was like the girls were still weary of Marco, and kept glancing over to check on him every few minutes. He appreciated it, but it made trying to focus on his writing even harder. He quickly decided that there was no way he’d get Jean’s article down right now, so he focused on his emails and catching up on some odd jobs for his bosses. 

It seemed like almost no time had passed before Marco’s phone rang. The light that had lit up said that it was just Franz outside in reception – who never rang Marco... _ever_. Marco and the girls were newbies in Trost, and they didn’t do anything that meant they would get visitors or parcels. The only person in this office Franz rang regularly was Hannah – and that was because they were dating and kept sneaking lovey-dovey phone calls during work. 

So, Marco was understandably confused when he picked up the phone. 

“Hey Marco? There’s an Armin Arlet here to see you?” Franz’s voice said. 

“Armin?” Marco blinked in surprise. He’d conversed with Armin a few times, but he couldn’t think of a reason he’d be visiting him at work. Panic swelled up in Marco’s stomach. What if Armin had heard about what he’d done to Jean?

Hoping his voice was notably shaking, Marco cleared his thought. “O-ok, thanks Franz. I’ll be through in a minute.”

He hung up, and was immediately faced with two questioning faces. 

“I’ll be back soon, I guess,” Marco told the girls, standing up and shoving his phone and keys into his pocket – just in case. “Someone’s just popped by.”

“Ok, we’ll tell the big guys if they stop by,” Mina promised with a smile. 

Marco headed out the door, shooting them a quick wave. 

“Don’t suck any dicks, even if they upset you!”

“Shut up Hannah!”


	8. Always have a Game Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, Jean doesn't have a game plan. But he decides to just wing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this chapter is out on the 31st like I promised! (But it is early because I'm super busy unexpectedly for all of Saturday...)
> 
> But yes, hope you guys enjoy! This chapter actually ended up longer than planned (blame Connie and Sasha), so I had to split it a little... on the plus side I at least know exactly what's happening for the next chapter, so the update shouldn't hard to do...
> 
> You can find me [on tumblr](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com), if you want, but thank you all for reading! Hope you guys enjoy :)

“I’m sorry… Can you repeat that, please?” Connie asked, rubbing his eyes. In the seat beside him, Sasha was staring open-mouthed – too stunned to even take the next bite out of the bagel that was already half way to her mouth. 

Jean sighed and twirled the straw around his pepsi. He hadn’t agreed to come out for a bite of lunch with these two to explain the same thing over and over again. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, never mind try and make these two dweebs understand.

Taking a deep breath, he shrugged in the hopes he seemed indifferent about the whole thing. “I’m not going to draw for a while.”

“You’re… going to just paint from scratch instead?” Sasha asked.

“Nope.”

“Try your hand at sculpting?” Connie offered. 

“What? No! Guys, I’m just steering clear of all arty things for a while. That’s all there is to it.” Jean took a decisive bite out of his toastie to try and end the conversation. Naturally, it didn’t work.

Sasha shook her head, apparently unable to take in the information. “How long for?”

“Until I get some things sorted out.”

Get his head sorted out, more like.

“What things?”

“Nothing you two need to concern yourselves with. Just, the way things are right now I think it’s best if I take a break from my art. Once everything’s back in order, maybe I’ll be able to work again.”

“Why only _maybe_?”

“Just because! Christ guys, can you not just nod and accept it?” 

They exchanged a defeated glance, before nodding at Jean and returning to their meals – though Jean was slightly irritated to see how down-trodden they looked. Surely if any of them should be upset about the whole thing, it should be Jean himself?

After these past few weeks of (frankly) utter torment, Jean had woken up this morning and thought everything through. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate: he’d sat up all night until this morning thinking everything through after Marco… dropped by. 

Sure, the thinking through process was a little difficult when the thing with Marco last night still left Jean with a headache he was that confused about it, but Jean had at least sorted through his own feelings at least. Yes, he’d at last accepted the fact that Marco Bodt and his own freckled man were two very separate people; in looks, in personality, and in how Jean saw them. His freckled man was Jean’s dream guy: an ideal that Jean’s desperate and recently unleashed gay high schooler mind had created. The freckled man was Jean’s way of escape, a guy who helped him hone his art skills. That was all.

Marco? Marco was a shock. More than a shock; Marco was a wake-up call to Jean, who’d been hiding behind his freckled man this whole time. He was an actual person who had somehow shaken Jean up so violently that he was just constantly pining after that stupid journalised. Marco had overtaken the freckled man, and Jean just _needed_ him. Love was a very strong word, one that Jean had never used one anyone except this painted dream guy…

…and now he was contemplated using it on some bumbling, kind-hearted, stupidly attractive, normal guy. A real guy. 

Who Jean really needed to talk to. 

“So you told Armin about this little ‘break’ of yours?” Connie asked, flicking a crisp across the table. 

“I left a message for him with Mikasa,” Jean nodded. “I can’t imagine he’ll have a problem with it.”

“You know who will have a problem with it?” Sasha began with a growing smirk. “Christa.”

Jean and Connie flinched at the same time. No one wanted to think of how Christa would react to Jean not painting anymore; she was his biggest fan, and the queen of the puppy dog eyes. He would just have to avoid her like the plague until he was back working again.

Shaking the thought from his head, Jean tossed the last piece of the toastie into his mouth and downed his drink. He threw a couple of notes on the table for the whole meal and started to pull on his jacket.

“Right, I’ve got to run. My treat today.”

“Wait, what?” Sasha frowned. “You just said you’re taking a break, so what the hell do you have to go do now?”

Jean’s phone read it was just after one; there wasn’t a single new text or missed call, despite the fact he’d spent the whole morning sending messages and leaving voicemails for a certain freckled idiotic journalist. Jean tutted in irritation and shoved his phone back into his pocket; how was he supposed to talk to Marco when he wasn’t answering any of Jean’s messages? It wasn’t like Jean knew where he lived, so he couldn’t just drop by unannounced, and there was no way he could just hope to randomly bump into Marco somewhere.

“You guys wouldn’t happen to know about magazine offices, would you?” Jean muttered – not really actually aiming the question at the others. He’d probably have to go do an internet search or something. 

He certainly didn’t expect Connie to pipe up with the reply he did. 

“You mean like where you can find them? Sure.”

It took a moment for Jean to register the response, and he just blinked at Connie for a while to begin with. “Well… yeah…”

“You looking for one in particular?”

“Um… Trost Art?”

“Over on Rose Street. 5th floor of the offices next to M&S.”

With his mouth hanging open, Jean fell back into his seat and just continued to stare – Connie was totally unfazed, and hadn’t even seemed to notice the artist’s shock. 

“How do you know that?” Jean finally asked.

Looking up from his meal, Connie frowned and glanced between Jean and Sasha (who looked just as confused). “Do you guys ever listen to me when I talk about work? Hell, do you even know what I do?”

“Not really, no,” Sasha shrugged. 

Connie sighed. “I work for Forth Computer Company? We create systems for companies? Ringing any bells?”

“I’ll be honest, I thought you were still unemployed and had rich grandparents or something.”

“Sasha, you live with me!”

“I also live with a fridge! Doesn’t mean I ask it about its day.”

“Just last night you asked it if it wanted its ‘belly’ filled.”

“Can’t let the fridge go hungry, Connie.”

“Hey! Can you just answer me already?” Jean kicked them both under the table, growing more and more impatient with the way they rambled on like an old married couple. 

Connie seemed to get the hint – though Jean got the feeling he wasn’t too happy with continue the conversation with Sasha either – and took a noisy slurp of his drink. “Magazines, newspapers, book publishers, they’re some of our biggest customers – I don’t know, maybe they’re all English majors with no understanding of a computer system – Trost Art is just one of the groups we work with.”

Jean couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. He’d never been more thankful for having Connie around as he was in that moment. 

“You know,” Connie continued with a smirk. “It also helps that the Trost offices are the floor below mine.”

Staring straight at his old friend, Jean waited for a sign that Connie was having a laugh. The skin headed dick just smiled innocently in Jean’s direction. 

“Yeah I’m leaving now.” Jean stood up and left the café without even bothering to glare over his shoulder when he heard the two little shits sniggering away. Connie was well aware Jean was… _had interactions_ with Marco (‘friends’ didn’t seem like the right word at the moment…), so why hadn’t the little bugger mentioned that he worked one floor above him?

Saying that, Jean sure owed Connie for that information now; he made a mental note to buy him drinks or something, and headed further into the business area of town to try and find the Trost offices. 

Hey, if Marco wasn’t coming to Jean, Jean would have to come to Marco.

And as he stood in the lobby of the offices on Rose Street, the elevator button already pushed to call it down, it started to dawn on Jean just how stupid an idea this was. 

Marco obviously didn’t want to talk to him. Marco obviously didn’t want to see him. So what good would it do for Jean to barge into his office, uninvited and unannounced, in order to try and give him an explanation…

… and what was worse… was that Jean suddenly realised whilst he knew he needed to talk to Marco, he hadn’t worked out _what_ he was talking to him about. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes as the elevator doors slid open and he stepped inside. 

Ok game plan time. He had to decide which road he was aiming for here. He could just straight up apologise and say nothing more... though then Marco wouldn’t fully understand why Jean was apologising at it would completely defeat the point. He could just ask the guy if they could forget everything that happened and go back to be mates… but then Jean would forever be trying to rid himself of his oh-so-homo feelings for the freckled twerp. 

He supposed he could just confess to the guy or something, but geez, that took like… actually guts. And an ability to speak about that kind of thing without clamming up. Jean had neither of those things. 

He did, however, have a very red and panicked face as the elevator came to a stop and opened to reveal the Trost Art Magazine offices on the 5th floor. 

He stepped out into what seemed to be a small reception area, leading off into various sections for magazine stuff Jean had no idea about. Thankfully, there was a guy sitting at the reception desk, typing things onto a computer at inhuman speeds. Jean hovered in front of him for quite a while before the guy (named ‘Franz’ according to his nametag) noticed him waiting. 

“Can I help?” Franz asked, looking Jean up and down briefly. 

“Um… is Marco Bodt in?” Jean asked nervously. He was still painfully aware of how badly this might go down…

“Marco?” Franz looked even more confused now – Jean supposed Marco wasn’t high up enough in this place yet to get visitors. “Yeah he is, can I give him a name?”

 _If you give him my name, he might not come out…_ Jean thought to himself, shuffling awkwardly as he thought over his answer. 

“Armin Arlet…”

“Alright then, one moment please. Just take a seat.”

As he sat down on one of the cushioned benches (beside two other people in outfits significantly more formal than Jean’s old shirt and jeans), he made another mental note to add Armin to the drinks night out with Connie. Jean felt guilty for using the guy’s name, but Armin surely wouldn’t have minded, right? 

It didn’t take long before a door opened and the quizzical face of Marco Bodt popped round to peer inside. Jean was on his feet before he could even process the nerves that were pounding into his stomach. 

Marco’s eyes soon found him and they widened as he realised what had happened. Unable to really do much else, Jean gave a rather nervous, apologetic smile and shrugged helplessly. Marco’s shoulders notably relaxed – perhaps he’d originally been expecting some other sort of greeting from Jean? – and he approached, albeit rather cautiously. Jean couldn’t help but note the rather large distance still between the two of them when Marco came to a stop, rubbing his arm. 

“I… wasn’t expecting you…” Marco said. 

Jean bit his lip. “Yeah… sorry. Is it a bad time?” 

“No, not really.”

“Then do you… maybe want to take a walk?” Jean nodded towards the elevator, hoping and praying that Marco would accept the offer. Then again, the guy probably had work still, it was only lunch time; Jean felt his face contorting in disappointment just at the thought. 

“No… yeah… that’s fine,” Marco quickly turned back to Franz, who’d been watching the exchange between the two quite intently, it seemed. “I’m stepping out for a bit. I’ll be back before tonight’s meeting.”

Without waiting for a response, Marco moved straight towards the elevator, glancing at Jean only briefly to check he was following. 

Safe to say, that was the most uncomfortable elevator ride Jean’s ever experienced. (And he’d been trapped in a broken lift with Mikasa and Annie after one of their many arguments…)

The silence was crushing. Silences around Marco used to be comfortable, but that was before Jean had been trapped with all these inappropriate thoughts. He couldn’t tell if he was the one making the air between them awkward with his uncertainties, or if it was Marco. 

“You’re not Armin.”

It was a strange way to start the conversation… but it was an attempt, and that alone made Jean smile gratefully. 

“How’d you guess?”

Marco shrugged. “The horseface sort of gives it away.”

“Don’t fucking talk to Eren,” Jean grumbled, recognising the offence immediately. 

“He had some interesting stories about you.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

A small snort emerged from Marco, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Like how you spent most of high school stalking Mikasa around,” Jean cringed; he wondered if Eren had also told Marco how Jean had one day just stopped caring about Mikasa, and came out to all his friends without any warning or signs. (Though Reiner continues to swear that he always knew Jean was ‘one of them’). Marco hadn’t seemed to notice Jean’s reaction, and was still listing things fucking Jaeger had told him. “…and ended up with your face in the jelly bowl. And he told me about how you once got drunk and started flirting with your paint–”

He stopped. 

The atmosphere became chilled once more, and the two fell silent once again. Jean found himself watching the buttons light up one by one, praying that it would speed up and reach the ground level. Surely being out walking in the fresh air would be better than being cooped up in this suffocating elevator. 

At last the doors slid open, and it was obvious both Marco and Jean were scrambling to get out. Neither even tried to relax until they were outside the office building. 

“Are you, um, ok with just wandering a little?” Jean asked, pointing down the long city pavement without even lifting his head to look towards Marco. 

“Yeah… that’s alright.”

So they walked. For a few minutes, they headed down the street, ignoring the people passing them by or the cars speeding past on the road beside them. Then, without even checking with each other, they turned down a side street that led towards the inner part of the city – the pedestrian only zone. It was quieter down here, and Jean found they were walking slower suddenly as well. It was like they were both giving themselves time to just think over what they wanted to say. 

Jean gathered his thoughts. He still hadn’t fully decided what path he wanted to go down with this talk – whether he’d confess _everything_ to Marco, or just try and regain the somewhat brief friendship they’d had – but he figured his gut would have to lead the way at this point. Still… he needed to work out how to start…

“I’m so sorry…”

Jean froze on the spot. Momentarily thrown by what he’d just heard. Had he spoken without realising? No.

_No._

Marco had spoken. 

Marco had _apologised_. Which only threw Jean even more. 

The journalist had continued walking a few more steps after Jean had stopped, but soon realised the artist was no longer following, and paused to glance nervously back. Jean was horrified at how obvious the fear was in Marco’s eyes. Fear? What was he afraid of? 

“Wait… what are _you_ sorry for?” Jean asked, trying to shake his confusion away. 

Marco looked surprised at the question. “F-for… what I did… last night…”

“For… what you did…?”

“I don’t have an excuse for it,” Marco stared as his feet, his face reddening as he started to ramble out the thoughts that had clearly be weighing him down all this time. “I was angry, and upset, and jealous, and I didn’t know what to do anymore. I know I’m nothing but a disappointment to you…” 

_What?_

“…How I look just like your perfect, painted man, but I’m probably the furthest thing from what you imagined. I know there’s nothing I can do to change that, but the last thing I want is to take your art away from you…”

_WHAT?!_

“…It’s just… you always looked at him in that way–”

_What way?_

“–and… and even if I can’t be the one you look at like that, I don’t want to be the one who stopped you making that expression.”

Jean threw his hands out, waving Marco’s words away in a frenzy as he blinked past the wave of confusion and feelings he’d just been hit with. Marco’s voice came to a choked stop, and Jean took a deep breath to gather himself. 

“I’m really sorry…” he begun. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t understand, _at all_.”

Jean could have sworn Marco expression turned angry – but something about his eyes said it was a distressed anger. 

“I don’t want to be the one who ruined your perfect man, for you!” Marco shouted, perhaps a little too loudly for a public street. They may have been in the middle of a side path, but there were still plenty of people around. 

“Marco… you haven’t ruined anything.”

“Of course I have! You said it yourself! You can’t draw your freckled man anymore, all because of me.” Marco was growing loudly, more panicked, more pained. And with each cracked edge to his voice, Jean felt his heart tighten. 

It seemed Marco suddenly became aware of people passing by and shooting him looks, as he quickly hunched his shoulders and covered his mouth with his hand. He stared at his feet, and Jean could have sworn he saw him shake. Was he really this upset over the whole thing? Had he really misunderstood the situation that much? 

The steps Jean took to close the distance between them seemed both painfully hard, and wonderfully quick to take. His hand touched Marco’s elbow, which earned a flinch of the freckled idiot, and he sighed. 

“Shit… you’ve got it so wrong…” Jean muttered. 

As Marco peered at him in, clearly unable to understand, Jean leant a little closer to try and keep his words for Marco’s ears alone – as well as try and hide the panicked freckled face from other people’s views.

“Yeah. I can’t draw that freckled man anymore. No matter what I try, I just can’t make him. And yeah, it’s because of you… but _not_ for the reasons your thinking. Hell, it’s the total opposite!”

“What?”

Urgh, Jean really didn’t know how to explain this clearly. He scratched at his head, and tried to arrange the words in his mind as Marco watched him. 

“You and the freckled man… it’s… you’re not the same. Like… he’s this stupid fantasy and you’re… you’re _Marco_!” Yeah, Jean quickly realised this approach really wasn’t working. But hey, at least Marco was looking less sad now (instead he looked like Jean was talking in another language).

So, Jean sighed and let out a long, drawled “Fuuuuuuuuuuck everything.”

His hand moved from Marco’s elbow to grab his hand and pull it away from his mouth. Refusing to let go even when Marco tried to pull away, Jean turned and started walking back the way they came. (Hey, Marco had given his a blow job without asking, so Jean was totally entitled to a little hand holding, right?)

“This is why I’m a fucking painter…” Jean muttered as he hauled Marco down to the main street and holding his hand out to summon a taxi when he spotted one. As the cab pulled over, Marco was stammering out some panicked questions that Jean wasn’t listening too, so Jean opened the door and shoved him into the taxi first. 

“Jean?” Marco exclaimed as Jean gave the driver his address. 

“You can tell your boss that you’re out having a meeting with me, right?”

“Well… yeah, but what are you doing?”

Jean turned sharply, staring Marco down into silence. He’d never felt so sure of an action in a very long time. This was all he could do to make everything clear. It was had he _had_ to do. 

“I’m not a writer. I’m not good with words, never have been,” Jean explained. “So, I’m going to do what I should have done right from the start. I’m going to _show_ you.”


	9. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Show and Tell at Jean's workshop. And about time soon, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand the next chapter! When you read to the bottom, it won't be hard to guess what's come in the next update... *shifty eyes*
> 
> But anyways, thank you all so much for reading! I'm super glad you're all enjoying it.  
> You guys can find me [on tumblr](http://freckledboty.tumblr.com) as always, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too!

“J-Jean…? Maybe I should…” Marco shuffled uncomfortable on the pavement as Jean paid the taxi driver his fare. He didn’t pay too much attention to Marco’s stuttering and stammering – mainly because he was worried he’d be infected by the journalist’s nerves. 

“This way,” Jean said, leading him round the side of the house to the back door. Whenever he went out, he left the latch on the front door and used this one that led into the utility room – that way if he got an unexpected visitor in the form of Armin or someone, they knew that Jean wasn’t lying dead in a corner of his workshop, but simply not home. It was a system that worked pretty well… except the time Reiner was visiting in Armin’s place, and decided the front door wouldn’t open because Jean had collapsed in front of it, and so he smashed the living room window instead. 

That wasn’t a fun day. 

The washing machine was whirling away as they came in, and Jean kicked his shoes off so violently they smacked against the wall opposite. Glancing back to the forever fidgeting Marco, he found himself smiling a little. “I’m not planning on murdering you and burying you in my backyard or something, so just come in and relax a little.”

That at least made Marco let a chuckle slip out. “You sure?” he asked. “Because I’m pretty sure I deserve it.”

“Well I don’t think you do.”

“Bu–”

“Say no more about it.” Jean shot a glare over his shoulder, and Marco complied with his order immediately. Leading the journalist back through his house, Jean headed once again to the workshop – honestly, he hadn’t expected to come back in here for a while, considering he’d planned a ‘break’ from art. Oh well, his plans rarely turned out as expected. 

The workshop felt and looked just as grim as it had when Jean had collapsed in here the second time (which also happened to be the last time Marco was in here), and the overhead lighting did little to help the dim atmosphere. Pieces of paper, scrumpled or torn, still littered the floor – though now the mess was at least confined to the space around the easel. Jean felt his chest tighten with uncertainty as he looked over the mess and, most importantly, that box filled with sketchbooks…   
Jean wandered over – his steps much slower and smaller than they should have been. Shit, the nerves were really getting to him now. Glancing back over his shoulder, he realised   
Marco was still hovering uncertainly in the doorway. 

“Just… um, take a seat, I suppose?” Jean offered, motioning to the sofa, but honestly he was just as unsure. He was filled with this resolve to show Marco the truth… but he didn’t know if he could get it across so easily. 

_Well,_ he thought to himself as he reached down and picked up a few of the more recoverable sketches from the floor. _I’ll just have to put faith in my art._

Smoothing the two sketches he’d grabbed out a little, he moved over to Marco – who was perched right on the edge of the sofa. Jean had to laugh again when he saw him; this guy looked like he was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Then again, maybe he’d want to when Jean showed him everything. 

Taking one last look at the drawings, Jean took a deep breath and held them out to the freckled idiot.

Marco blinked, looking from the drawings to Jean and back again with confusion plastered across his features. Hesitantly (and with a shaking hand Jean pretended not to notice), he took the papers and examined them. 

Jean watched as Marco’s eyebrows knitted together, how his mouth pulled itself into a tight line. 

“They’re… your drawings?” Marco said slowly, looking up at Jean. 

He clearly didn’t get it. 

“Yes…” Jean waved Marco to continue. 

The journalist only looked more confused, but returned his eyes to the drawings anyway – bringing them even closer to his face as he inspected them. Meanwhile, Jean rushed over to the box of sketchbooks and pulled the top one out – this particular one was a new addition to that box, and it was overflowing with loose sheets of paper. 

He stood in front of Marco again, waiting with the book in his hands for Marco to finish with those two pieces. 

“I’m sorry, Jean…” the journalist muttered. “I just see unfinished drawings…”

Jean nodded, frowning slightly in thought. He couldn’t understand why it wasn’t obvious… maybe it was because they were a bit too crumpled. If that was the only reason, that was fine. So, this time, he held out the book. 

Marco raised his eyebrows questioningly, but placed the two creased drawings on the sofa beside him and took the sketchbook from Jean – not commenting on how Jean held onto it a little too long. It was weird; Marco sitting in front of him, now holding the sketchbook Jean had been most ashamed of these past few weeks, and flipping it open. 

The pages of the book itself were completely clean; this book was nothing but a disgraceful storage area for loose sheets – the ones that Jean couldn’t bring himself to tear up for one reason or another. Mostly, the drawings were incomplete; just the basic sketch of a person, or even just single body parts or faces. There were quite a few, however, that could pass as completed black-and-white pieces: with backgrounds and shading, and these were the ones Marco tended to stare at the longest. 

“These are…” he mumbled, almost to himself. Jean’s hopes lifted for a moment – wondering if Marco was finally getting it. 

The journalist lifted his head, his face disbelieving. “These are amazing, Jean!”

“Huh?” That… wasn’t the reaction Jean expected. 

“These drawings, I know they’re not paintings or huge masterpieces you’ve got hanging in galleries… but I think these are better than any of your other art,” Marco’s eyes were positively shining with amazement as he drank in drawing after drawing. “I mean, that’s just my unprofessional opinion, but… I don’t know, they just give off a different atmosphere to the others. It’s like…”

“Like I’m truly in love with the person I’m drawing?”

Marco froze. 

His smile fell, beaten off his face by Jean’s words and replaced with that painful expression once again. Yep, Marco didn’t get it. He really didn’t get it. And that stung Jean more than he thought it would. 

“Yeah…” Marco’s voice cracked. “Maybe that’s what it is.”

Jean felt his jaw stiffen. “And the person themselves? Can you see any improvements in their appearance?”

Oh, Marco looked _supremely_ uncomfortable now. He couldn’t even look at the drawings straight. “I-I’m not sure. I don’t have artist eyes like you, Jean…”

_So I’ve realised…_ Jean thought coldly to himself. 

He crouched down, so he could be closer to the sketchbook in Marco’s lap. He pulled out one of the significantly better drawings – a man standing ankle deep in the ocean, smiling out of the paper at them. In Jean’s head, the image was during sunrise; he’d dreamt this scene only a few nights ago. 

Lifting a finger, Jean pointed at the man’s torso.

“Compared to the one I usually draw, this person isn’t as big or muscly. He doesn’t have that idealised buff image, but instead just a normal, realistic body type. Muscles not quite as defined, shoulders not quite as wide, hips not quite as strong. He’s still smaller though; especially around the waist. And he has more freckles around his shoulders.”

His finger brushed upwards, stroking along the paper to the man’s face. Marco was watching just as intently as he listened – though the dejected look was still all over him. 

“His jawline isn’t as square or clichéd. His nose is smaller. His cheeks are rounder. He has even more freckles – despite the fact I didn’t think that was possible! So many more emotions pass over his features… and each of them is so much more beautiful,” Jean lifted his head, staring up at Marco desperately. “Do you get it now?”

“You’ve… made him more realistic?” 

Jean wanted to scream. Why was this so difficult? Was his art really that hard to understand? Or was Marco just totally dense?

No, it probably wasn’t either of those things. Marco himself had said earlier that he could feel something different from these drawings; the reason he wasn’t understanding what Jean was trying to show him was that he was so resigned to believe whatever was going on in his head. He couldn’t open his eyes to see what Jean had put in front of him. 

Jean sighed. “Yeah. That’s right.”

He straightened himself up, allowing his face to be more on the same level of Marco’s. 

“This guy is real. The guy in these drawings isn’t the one I used to draw.”

That got Marco’s attention. 

The journalist lifted his head to meet Jean’s gaze. He didn’t shy away when their eyes met, simply stared back quizzically. 

“This… is a different person?”

“A completely different person.” 

Jean could almost see Marco’s brain whirling behind his eyes; frantically searching for an explanation, trying to put the pieces together that Jean was showing him. 

Jean’s heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel his cheeks heating up as he cautiously raised a hand. His fingers briefly brushed against Marco’s cheek to gauge the reaction. The freckled journalist stiffened, but relaxed again almost immediately. Jean kept his eyes fixed on Marco’s as he placed his whole hand against the side of his face. Somehow, that little bit of contact both calmed him and made him all the more focused. 

“This person is real. He’s not the same as the other guy, no matter how similar they may be in looks. That guy was an image. He was nothing more than a fantasy I painted. But this guy? The man in these drawings? He’s real. He’s someone that every one of my senses can indulge in: not just something pretty to look at,” Jean smiled. “And that’s what makes him all the more perfect.”

Marco’s features softened ever so slightly as things started to click into place inside his head. The faintest of blushes rose to his cheeks, but he said nothing; simply sat silently as Jean smiled up at him. 

“Thanks to this guy,” Jean tapped the drawing with his free hand. “I can’t draw the man I used to. No matter what I do, how I do it, I just can’t recreate the freckled man I used to draw. The only person that appears on my canvas is this… this other freckled idiot.”

Marco’s eyes widened. 

“It’s all his fault; he’s broke his way into every nook and crevice of my head. He’s all I can think about, all I can draw; fuck, I see him in my dreams now. This idiot has just elbowed his way into my life, and eradicated the man I used to paint.”

“D-do… do you mean…?” Marco stammered. He didn’t get any more out, just bit his lip as his cheeks reddened even further. 

“Well?” Jean asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Are you going to apologise for rudely barging into my mind?”

Jean had to snatch his hand back as Marco dropped his head into his hands – blushing all the way to the ears now. The artist had to summon all his will power to stop himself from laughing. Could a fully grown man really blush that brightly?

“So… that time you told me to stay away was because…”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“So… you’re not angry at me…?”

Sighing, Jean took a hold of Marco’s wrists and started to softly tug them. Marco didn’t resist, letting Jean move his hands so they could meet each other’s eyes once more. Jean smiled, unable to stop himself. 

“You are one of two people in this whole world who has seen _all_ my drawings,” Jean nodded his head towards the box of sketchbooks. “You know better than most what sort of things I… what I sometimes imagine… with the freckled man I paint…” Shit, now he was blushing. “I hated myself for thinking of you like that. I could barely look at you without feeling guilty.”

“Wait!” Jean jumped at how loud Marco’s voice was. The journalist was gaping like a goldfish now. “Y-you’re saying you were… imagining me like… _that_.”

Now it was Jean’s turn to try and hide away in embarrassment. Since he was still holding on to Marco’s wrists, the best he could do was twist his head to the side in the hopes that would somehow get him out of Marco’s line of sight. 

“See now why I couldn’t tell you?” Jean said, perhaps a little too loud. 

Jesus Christ… Jean felt like some stupid fifteen year old in the midst of confessing to his crush. This was ridiculous! 

“So…” Marco’s voice was a lot calmer now. “You can’t draw your freckled man anymore because… you keep drawing me instead?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“You were drawing me…”

“Why are you repeating it?”

“You were thinking about me…”

Turning back to see what Marco was mumbling about now, Jean’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the look on the freckled idiot’s face. 

He looked so… _happy._

“This whole time I was jealous of myself?” Marco laughed. 

“Ok, ok, no need to keep telling me!” Jean complained. This was much too embarrassing to continue. 

“Hey Jean?” Marco leant forwards a little more. “You said something earlier about being in love with the person you’re drawing?”

Jean’s breath caught. 

“Mind if I take that to mean what I think it does?”

“You better,” Jean frowned. “Because I’m fucking done with trying to explain anymore! I told you: I’m an artist. I’m not good with words.”

Marco nodded. “In that case, mind letting go of my hands quickly?”

A moment of panic crossed over Jean’s features. Had the time arrived? Was Marco about to bolt? It wouldn’t be surprising after hearing that Jean fucking imagined him in… _compromising_ positions. Still, he released Marco’s wrists, dropping his own hands by his sides.

He would have stood up and moved away to allow Marco a clearer route to the door, but then he couldn’t move. 

The hands on his cheeks probably had something to do with that. 

Marco’s hands were warm on his skin, and the way Marco lightly encouraged him forwards made Jean’s chest twist and turn. 

“You sure I can take it this way?” Marco whispered when their faces were mere inches apart. 

Jean sniggered. “First you don’t ask my permission at all, now you’re checking every few seconds? You need to learn to stay consistent, Bodt.”

Marco’s eyes flashed sadly again and he began to pull back. Jean rolled his eyes and grabbed the journalist’s knees. 

“It was a joke, Marco.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Hey, I’ve done a lot worse to you in my mind.”

Marco blushed again as Jean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Jean didn’t even have a chance to make another joke to lighten the mood since he soon found lips on his own. 

Smiling, Jean pushed himself further against Marco as he closed his eyes. He could feel the tension in Marco’s body – it flowed up and out of his lips as Jean started to move against them. Well, he’d have to do something about that, wouldn’t he?

Still, there was something maddeningly amazing about actually kissing his man. Jean wasn’t even aware of the pain in his knees as he knelt there, or how awkwardly his feet were bent. All he could think of was moving his hands slowly up Marco’s thighs, the hands clutching his face, the smell of the man he was pressed up against, and most of all the taste as his tongue teased Marco’s lips apart and slipped inside. 

Then his foot cramped and the world split apart. 

“Fu-!” he cried against Marco’s lips, heaving his body backwards and tumbling onto his side – slipping his leg out from under him so he could clutch at the offending foot. 

Marco just sat there – mouth still parted and hands still hovering in the air where Jean’s face had been – watching as Jean rolled on the floor, desperately trying to massage the horrific pain out of his foot. 

“Shitting hell!” Jean cursed, scrambling to his feet and trying to walk off the cramp. “Fucking ruining the mood… This is why all my romantic escapades happen in my fucking head!”

A sound filled the workshop – one that sounded suspiciously like an angel giggling, or some shit – and Jean’s cramp somehow disappeared the moment he heard it. He looked across at the giggling Marco; the way his eyes were squeezed shut, and he was laughing into the back of his hand. Jean quickly decided that he was more than happy to suffer through the embarrassment of real-life romance if this was what he’d be rewarded with. 

He limped across to his table and grabbed the first empty sheet of paper he could see. A pencil in hand, he set about scribbling, ignoring the fact that Marco was now standing up and walking over. 

“What are you doing?” 

Jean’s hand moved across the paper faster than usual – quickly trying to get the image of Marco’s laugh preserved.

“Sorry, I just don’t want to forget it…” Jean muttered as he drew. It was just a basic sketch – messy and rough – but it was good enough for him to draw again properly later. Satisfied, he put the pencil down and smiled across the table at Marco. 

“So…” he grinned. “Where were we?”

Marco smirked. “I believe we were playing out one of my fantasies.”

“Oh no, Mr Bodt. We’re playing out one of _mine_.”


	10. Entwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their feelings now laid bare, Jean finds himself struck with a sudden idea... that Marco surely wouldn't agree to... _surely..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has had to be split in two because this part of it went on longer than I expected, and, well, I don't want to bombard you with like supremely long chapters! 
> 
> But yeah, I've been looking forward to this part specifically for like ages! Hope you guys enjoy it! 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr here](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com) ^^
> 
> haha... remember when this was supposed to be a one-shot? those were the days...

As Marco hurried off to make a phone call to his boss, claiming that he was out for the rest of the day for ‘interview’ purposes ( _Yeah,_ Jean thought, _an interview with my dick maybe_ ), Jean set about tidying up the workshop a touch. It was only when his hands were lingering on one doodle of Marco that the idea hit him. His heart nearly burst with excitement just at the thought, and he had to glance over his shoulder to check Marco hadn’t returned to the workshop yet for fear he’d see Jean’s expression (which was undoubtedly a little… lecherous right now).

He couldn’t ask Marco to do that… could he? No. He couldn’t. He was being stupid just thinking about something like that. But the more he thought about it, the more Jean was shuffling in exhilaration at the prospect. His breathing was actually growing a little laboured, and he was so wrapped up in how amazing doing such a thing would be that he didn’t hear Marco return. 

“They said it was fine,” Jean jumped, hiding the doodle he was holding behind his back, and trying to look as innocent as possible. Thankfully, Marco was still a little too nervous to look straight at him, so he didn’t really notice. “As long as I actually come back tomorrow with stuff to write…” He laughed a little awkwardly, rubbing his neck as an embarrassed smile rose to his features. 

Jean’s heart pounded. He’d said they were playing out one of Jean’s fantasies, but this, what he was thinking of asking right now… that was a fantasy he’d never expected to be able to play out. 

He… couldn’t really ask… could he?

Marco shuffled a little and glanced up at Jean. The moment their eyes met, Marco’s smile fell into concern. “Um… are you ok?”

Jean nodded. Perhaps a little too vigorously… Marco raised an eyebrow and his eyes darted from Jean’s expression to the hands behind his back. Oh god… Marco was already looking creeped out. 

“Are you sure…? Because you kind of look like I walked in on you planning a murder or reading porn or something.”

Reading porn would have been less embarrassing with the way Jean’s thoughts were going. His eyes scraped down Marco’s front against his will and he remembered what was under there from the time Marco had modelled for him. His breath hitched at the thought of what he could do with it.

“I’m feeling sort of violated… should I be?” Marco laughed awkwardly, drawing Jean’s attention back up to his face. 

Biting his lip, Jean told himself to man the fuck up and get those thoughts out of his head. He and Marco had finally gotten their feelings across to each other; he wasn’t in the mood to ruin in with stupid ideas… no matter how much those ideas were turning him on right now. He just needed to say something reassuring to Marco – about how he loved him and was just thinking about how happy he was or something like that. Something straight out of romance book… he’d probably read one at some point in his life, right?

“CAN I PAINT YOU?”

That… was not what he wanted to say…

Jean’s mouth hung open; slowly realising just what horrors he may have unleashed. Marco didn’t look too worried, more… confused. 

He gestured around the workshop. “Um… I thought it was already pretty clear that you’ve been doing that?”

Yes. Good. Jean was relieved he took it that way. He attempted to laugh it off and tell Marco that yes – he had indeed already painted him, how silly of him to think otherwise!

“I meant can I paint on you.”

Wow. Again. Not what Jean had intended to come out of his mouth. He wondered if he should go see a doctor about this condition. 

Clapping a hand over his face, Jean repeated the words inside his head and decided they did indeed sound weird as hell. He briefly dared to peek through his fingers at Marco – only to discover he was just standing there with a small blush. 

“Um… so you mean like… face painting?”

Jean dropped his hand, shoving both inside his pockets and shifting his weight to one leg. “Not like that. I mean like… your back or your chest… You know what? Just forget it, it’s weird.”

“It’s not _that_ weird. I mean, you are an artist. At least you’re not asking to like make a mould of me or something!” 

Marco laughed and Jean may have contemplated that thought a little too seriously…

“Jean! You’re not making a mould of me!”

“You suggested it!”

“ _That’s_ weird.”

Rolling his eyes, Jean found himself smirking. He shook his head and motioned to the door back into the house. “Come on, let’s get out of here before I decide it would be kinky to stuff you or something.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding…” Marco said, pulling his hand away when Jean stepped forward and tried to take it. 

Jean winked. “Maybe.”

Chuckling, Marco let out a dramatic sigh and took Jean’s hand. They both paused for a moment when their skin made contact, smiling and taking in the warmth from each other. When their eyes looked back up at each other again, Marco’s shoulders fell slightly. 

“Alright. What are you using?”

Jean blinked. “Huh?”

“To paint me. What are you using?”

Jean couldn’t work out just what the feeling was that was bubbling in his chest; it was some strange mix of tender emotions and uncontainable excitement. It spilled over onto his face, drawing out a smile so wide that his cheeks were hurting after just a second. He dropped Marco’s hand in favour of running over to the boxes or art supplies, plunging straight in to search for something suitable. He didn’t have anything specifically for body painting – it wasn’t something he’d ever done, nor something that he could really take seriously (mainly because the idea of painting someone else’s body seemed so… _intimate_ ). He wasn’t sure what would work well on skin, but figured watercolours were the best bet – not much chance of a bad reaction and easy to wash off. 

Plus Jean really liked watercolours. And he really liked Marco. It seemed like a good mix.

He turned around – the small box in his hands and shot Marco one last look to check he was still agreeing to it. He just smiled and glanced around again. 

“So… are we staying in here then?” 

“Sure, if you want to lie on some old, groggy couch…” Jean said sarcastically. He wandered back across the room and beckoned Marco to follow him. “There are like a billion spare rooms in the house that I don’t care getting messy.”

The house felt warmer than usual as Jean led Marco upstairs. Maybe it was just because they’d been in the cool workshop for a while. Or maybe the afternoon sun had heated the house up more than usual. Jean liked to think it was because Marco was there. 

There were a total of three spare bedrooms in the big house that Jean wasn’t using. He went for one with an en-suite – figuring Marco would probably want to wash the paint off as soon as possible afterwards – and quickly peered around to check it wasn’t too dusty in here. Luckily this was one of the most used spares (his parents used it when they visited, and so did most of his friends, actually), so it wasn’t bad at all. 

The moment he entered, Marco was shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the wardrobe handle. His hands hesitated on his shirt buttons when he realised Jean was watching him. Marco smiled, which shook Jean out of his trance – quickly changing his focus to setting up instead of watching Marco strip. 

He moved over to the bedside table and set the box of watercolours down. He was already rolling the sleeves of his jumper up when he headed into the bathroom to grab a glass of water. It was only when he placed that on the table too and looked back up that he realised Marco was now waiting – standing by the bed topless and clearly expecting instructions. 

Now here was where Jean faced a dilemma. He could either ask Marco to lay on his back – it would be harder to work with, but he could also paint along all those curves. Or, he could ask Marco to lay on his front – painting on his back would be a lot easier, since it was smoother and more even… and to be honest, it wasn’t like Jean didn’t like his shoulders too…

“Can I chose which side you paint?” 

Jean tore his eyes from Marco’s chest to look back up. Raising his eyebrows, he followed his arms and tilted his head to the side. “That depends on your reasons, I guess.”

“My front.”

“Why? It’ll be more ticklish. Especially around your stomach.”

“I like the expression you make when you paint.”

Jean’s stomach somersaulted. How could Marco say that sort of thing with such a straight face? Gritting his teeth, he turned his head away and pointed to the bed. 

“Lay face down.”

“Eh? But I–”

“Like hell I’m painting your front when you’ve just told me that!”

He refused to look Marco in the face – but he listened intently to the small chuckle and then the rustling as Marco climbed onto the bed and settled himself down. By the time Jean’s heart had stopped racing and had the confidence to look back at the freckled idiot, Marco was resting his head on his arms with his eyes closed gently. 

Stealing himself, Jean carefully knelt on the edge of bed, picked up a paintbrush and stared thoughtfully at the box of watercolours for a moment. His eyes darted back and forth between the rainbow of colours he had ready and the freckled skin stretched across Marco’s back. His shoulder blades moving with each breath he took – actually, when Jean watched, Marco’s breathing seemed a little heavier than usual.

Telling himself not to think too much, Jean decided to just let his hand make the decisions – his intuition picking the first colour and then, before he knew it, the paintbrush was sweeping down Marco’s back. 

That was all it took. One little sweep of colour and Jean fell in love. Any giddy excitement or nervousness faded away as his art instincts took over – falling into a trance like he did with some of his most inspired pieces. Nothing mattered except the colours, the lines, and the canvas stretched out beneath him. 

It was the perfect canvas too; motionless, even when Jean unconsciously crawled on top of him to get a better angle to view the work from. The canvas was one of the most important parts of any piece; a bad canvas ruined the entire work, making it hard to draw, or the paint to sit funny on it. A good canvas was the difference between a beautiful piece of art, and a struggle for the artist. 

Marco was the most beautiful canvas Jean had painted on.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there. Actually, he was half-certain that Marco had fallen asleep at some point. His eyes hadn’t opened this entire time, and his face was so relaxed Jean was sure only sleep could have caused it.

Sitting upright (and slightly confused as to when he’d straddled himself across Marco’s ass…), Jean inspected the work. He wouldn’t call it ‘finished’ – he could sit and paint Marco forever if he could – but he knew they’d been here for long enough, and seeing as Marco’s back was already pretty covered he doubted he could get much more done like this. Jean couldn’t move straight away; he was totally and utterly captivated by the colours in front of him. It wasn’t often his own work left him speechless (it was more the _thoughts_ of a certain person in those works that did that), but something about seeing Marco’s skin covered in his painting… it was… 

“Hot…” 

Jesus Christ. That was _not_ what he was going for! He meant to say ‘beautiful’ or something… and actually, he hadn’t meant to say anything out loud at all!

“Hm?” Marco hummed, trying to twist his head round to see Jean. He was blinking a little too regularly, so Jean was positive he’d at least been dozing.

“I-I’m done,” Jean said – deciding it best not to repeat the idiotic thought he’d breathed out. 

Marco blinked faster and tried to sit up, only to realise that Jean was sort of sitting on him. When Jean showed no intention to move, Marco dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Can’t I go have a look?”

“Oh… yeah.”

Jean slowly slid off, allowing Marco a chance to get off the bed. He seemed to be careful with his movements – like he was afraid that he might mess up the painting – but also hurried to the bathroom to try and get a glimpse in the mirror. Jean’s eyes had been fixated on the painting… but the closer Marco got to seeing it, the more his eyes clung to the freckled face – praying for a good reaction. 

Marco flicked the bathroom light on and stared into the mirror. He almost seemed to be gathering himself for some reason. Jean tentatively stood behind him – leaning against the shower door in an attempt to look casual and hide just how worried he was growing. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror. Marco smiled. 

Slowly, he turned, twisting his head in the opposite direction to try and get the best view of his back possible. Jean held his breath, watching as the rather emotionless face caught the first glimpse of what had been created on his back. 

Marco’s eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly and there was a small but audible gasp. His head snapped back round to Jean – causing the artist to jump – as if to ask ‘am I seeing things?’ before looking back into the mirror again. 

The image stretched from the tips of his shoulder blades right down to just before the curve of his hips. A pair of overlapped wings seemed to be the main focal point – when Jean first painted them, they were sharp, strong, harsh. Now, however, it was almost hard to really see a flicker of cruelty about them. Flowers and vines curled and twisted around the pointed feathers. Entwining themselves through the wings and overtaking it. It was them which seeped colours – every one imaginable until it was perhaps one or two strokes away from being almost offensive to the eye. Jean hadn’t let it get that far though, and instead created something that Marco could barely take his eyes off. 

Dammit, Jean had never been this worried about someone looking at his work before. Marco was too silent, and it was torture waiting for a reaction that was obvious enough for Jean to take as official. He was just staring. Staring with no real emotion. And that was unbelievably stressful. 

“Why…?” 

Jean flinched. Narrowing his eyes to try and see what emotion was in Marco’s eyes. 

“Why did you have to paint this on me?”

What was that sound? Oh, probably just Jean’s hope shattering into a million pieces. 

Marco snapped his head round. Yep, that was definitely a bit of anger in his eyes. “Are you an idiot?” 

Make that a billion pieces. 

“I was expecting like some random picture, not a fucking work of _art_.”

Yeah, now Jean was totally lost. 

“Um…” he began. “So you _don’t_ like that it’s good?”

“How can you paint this on me when I have to wash it off?” Marco’s face was legitimately distressed. He wasn’t acting up or joking around… he was honestly upset. “I can’t wash something like _this_ down a drain! It’d be like going into a gallery and just burning away a painting!”

Jean’s hope started pooling back together again. He tried his best to keep his face neutral whilst Marco was going off like this, but there was no way he could hold back the relieved smile that was appearing. Marco just continued ranting; pretty much yelling at Jean for putting him in this position and telling him to take a picture of it right now so _something_ could be preserved.

And that was it. Jean couldn’t hold back anymore. He burst into a fit of giggles. 

Marco looked insulted. 

“Do _not_ laugh at this Jean Kirschtein!” 

“I’m sorry… just…!” He couldn’t get the words out. He was too busy trying to stop himself from snorting he was laughing that hard. 

Marco stepped forward, still rambling on about something or other that Jean just wasn’t hearing. The warmth filling Jean’s belly was too distracting. It wasn’t until Marco was standing right in front of him, doing these wonderfully theatrical arm movements to emphasise his points, that Jean managed to open his eyes and focus on him. 

So, he grabbed Marco by the neck, and pushed their lips together. 

He felt Marco’s teeth hit him – but that was probably expected since Jean hadn’t exactly given him much of a warning. He quickly got freckles to relax though; drawing anger out through a kiss seemed to be pretty damn effective with this journalist, so Jean gave it his all to take away any breath Marco had left to yell with. His tongue pushed inside the moment Marco opened his mouth to try and catch a breath – moving as if it was trying to paint even Marco’s insides. He felt Marco sink into him, captivated and entranced: Jean was pretty certain he’d gotten Marco to forgive him with those moves.

Sure enough, they broke apart, lips wet and breaths heavy. Marco was pouting slightly – Jean’s tactic hadn’t gone unnoticed (or the smug smile, for that matter) – but there was a hungry glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. The anger had dissipated – though Jean had to wonder how much of that anger had actually been directed at _him_ , and not just at the thought of losing the painting. Probably not much.

“At least take a photo…” Marco muttered. His voice was quieter than it was probably meant to be… which may have been due to the fact that Jean was now trailing his fingers up the bare chest in front of him. 

“No.”

“But–”

“It’s just a painting. A scribble of my brush with colours. I don’t care about it. It was what I was painting _on_ that I cared about. That was the amazing part. Painting on you. I don’t think you get just how incredible that was to me.”

“But it’s still amazing. The painting.”

“You know what I think would make it _more_ amazing?” Jean pulled softly at Marco’s arms, drawing them closer and smirking up into that worry-filled face. He reached around the broad back and swiped a finger right across the painting. Marco opened his mouth to complain, but Jean hushed him by holding the paint-covered fingertip before his lips. “If you let me wash it off you.”

Marco’s eyes widened slightly. He clamped his lips shut and gave a slow nod. 

“Yeah… that would be… pretty cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Yes, those wings are supposed to be the Scouting Legion ones... they're hard to describe...))


	11. Painted Waterfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they had to wash away the paint somehow...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the pouncy title, this chapter is simply a continuation of the last (because it was too long together). A chapter that ups the rating. So I'm sure you can guess. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it all the same!
> 
> I will be hiding in shame on [ tumblr.](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com)
> 
> (ALSO! [Have an alternative result of Marco's back painting](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com/post/90645861862/for-a-moment-i-thought-jean-would-draw-marco-in-marcos). And blame the anon who gave me the idea)

“There’s something pretty erotic about seeing my work on your back.”

They’d stripped each other of their remaining clothes torturously slow. Well, Jean didn’t. Jean ripped Marco trousers away pretty much as fast as he could. It was Marco who took his time undoing every last button and touching every millimetre of Jean – clothed and otherwise. It was maddening; Jean had no choice but to stand there watching as Marco’s eyes and hands totally consumed him with nothing but slight looks and touches. When he was at last finished, Jean didn’t give him a chance to take the next stage slowly – he reached into the shower and flicked it on. Almost immediately, Jean stepped backwards into the shower, tugging Marco in after him and letting the cool water crash against them. Marco flinched, grumbling something about the cold and at least waiting for the shower to warm up first, but Jean quickly silenced him by taking away the use of his mouth. Yes, this was definitely a good trick; one that Marco didn’t seem _too_ against judging by how eager he kissed – pushing Jean right up against the shower wall. 

Water streamed down their joined faces, ran down their bodies almost chilled – it only made every touch and kiss all the more charged, all the more stimulating. Jean smiled as Marco pressed their bodies together; skin on skin contact burnt them even in the cold shower. And as Marco lips travelled down to ravish Jean’s neck, everything started heating up – and not just the water. 

Jean tilted his neck further back, giving Marco all the space and time he wanted – there was no way he was going to stop the journalist when he could do that with his tongue. Instead, Jean focused on the actual point of the shower. His hands, that had been hovering on Marco’s hips, started sliding upwards; palms flat against his back, Jean pushed upwards through the very middle of Marco’s painting. He felt Marco’s teeth on his neck as the journalist shuddered – knowing all too well what Jean was now doing. 

“Marco…” Jean whispered, twisting slightly in the hold. “Look…”

“Hm?” was the only reply he could get; Marco was _way_ too invested in turning the entirety of Jean’s neck a different colours. By the end of this, Jean was going to look like he’d been the one painted…

“Just look down already.”

Reluctantly, Marco pulled back, lidded eyes shooting Jean a look of confusion. Smirking, Jean pushed his body against Marco’s, but only to make him move backwards a little (though, he was certainly going to enjoy the brief friction). Raising an eyebrow at Jean, Marco peered down the new space between them and Jean pushed his hands through the painting once more. 

Colours, vivid even when washing away, swirled in the water. Mixing, dancing as they cascaded down Marco’s body and eventually swept around their feet and down the plug. As amount of colour lessened, Marco’s eyes pulled back up to Jean’s – the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. 

“Amazing…” he agreed, closing the distance between them once again. 

His hands stroked up and down Jean’s body, fingers brushing teasingly past almost every sensitive part of him. Marco zoned in on each one and purposefully avoided them as much as possible – it only made Jean squirm with impatience. To keep his head, he focused on pushing the paint off Marco’s skin and making rainbows in the water over and over. It was only when he got a bit too excited and pressed his lips against Marco’s shoulder that Marco seemed to be unable to hold it back any longer. 

“Shit…” Marco breathed against Jean, arms snapping down to wrap around him. Jean didn’t really know what he was doing until his feet were no longer touching the floor. 

“Bloody he-!” Jean’s cry of shock was cut off by Marco’s lips (this guy was taking his tricks!) and he had no choice but to hold onto Marco as the journalist hoisted him up off the ground. 

He snaked his legs around Marco’s hips, letting his back rest against the wall for the rest of the support needed to stay where he was; Marco showed no signs of being strained by holding up Jean’s weight – he just kissed him. 

It was only when one of Marco’s hands were moving down and around Jean’s back that they had a brief struggle in terms of keeping Jean from falling – but Jean’s legs were strong enough to hold on tight enough that it didn’t matter that Marco’s hand was massaging his ass. 

“You got stuff?” Marco whispered, his lips against Jean’s ear. 

“Mhm… somewhere…” Jean waved a hand towards the shelf of shower stuff, not really paying attention to anything but the feel of Marco’s finger as it started to edge inside. 

“Helpful,” Marco chuckled. He turned his head – wanting to check around before reaching out aimlessly. Jean was pretty sure he had the necessaries in the shower… but he quickly realised that this wasn’t the right shower. 

“Fuck…” Jean groaned, burying his head into the crook of Marco’s neck. “I’m not moving to go get it.”

“It’s fine, I’ll go.”

“Fuck no. Besides, you still have paint running down your back.” Jean swept a hand through the mostly washed-away painting to prove the point. 

Marco sighed, chuckling slightly as he pressed his lips against Jean’s cheek. “Well we’re going to have to hurry and finish with our shower.”

Jean groaned – louder this time. “I’m not leaving this shower unless it’s in your arms because I can barely stand.”

“But we need–”

“Just use fucking shampoo or something!”

“I don’t think that’s a good–”

“I don’t think either of us _really_ give a fuck.”

Marco stayed silent for a moment, perhaps contemplating what Jean had said, but in the end he sighed and held Jean tighter. Reaching out awkwardly, he grabbed a nearby bottle of hair conditioner and awkwardly squeezed some along the small of Jean’s back – for lack of a free hand to put it in. The bottle toppled loudly to the shower floor, and Marco ran his fingers through the little pool of conditioner on Jean’s back, dragging it downwards between his ass. 

Jean, unable to try and return the favour of pleasing Marco due to their position, opted to focus all his attention on Marco’s back. He decided that by the end of this afternoon, he’d have turned Marco’s back into an erogenous zone – the journalist won’t be able to have anyone pat his back without remembering this moment. The conditioner did a good job of making it pretty easy for Marco’s to move his fingers inside Jean, but it also helped Jean to distract himself by peering over the sturdy shoulder at his hands wiping away the paint in waves of coloured water. 

“I still can’t believe you’re washing it off,” Marco muttered as he worked Jean wider – his breath was notably heavier now, and it made Jean smirk to hear. 

“I still can’t believe you think I care about a painted scribble.”

“It was hardly a scribble!”

“I’d much prefer to see you back than some random ass picture.”

Jean couldn’t help but think Marco purposefully chose that moment to push the third finger inside – he grunted at the discomfort. 

“Think you can draw it for me again later? On a piece of paper this time?”

“I’m sure I can try.”

The fingers twisted inside him, making Jean’s toes curl as he clung to Marco even tighter. He couldn’t even tell if Marco was _trying_ to send Jean crazy with the brief twists and uneven thrusting, or if he was doing it unknowingly whilst just trying to experiment. Well, either way, Marco soon caught on to Jean’s squirming, and started sucking at his neck again. 

“Can we just go already?” Jean sighed, swiping his hand through the paint and water on Marco’s back once more before putting his hands on his shoulders and leaning back against the wall again. He licked his lips excitedly as Marco pulled back and their eyes met. 

Nodding, Marco brushed his nose along Jean’s cheek – their breaths mixing together as Marco started to rearrange his hold on Jean. He seemed to be having a bit of trouble, but Jean couldn’t exactly help much in this position, so he just let himself be completely manhandled by Marco… though, he wasn’t exactly complaining about that. 

Marco pushed in. Jean pressed his head back into the wall, taking one long deep breath as he felt the heat start to intrude. He wasn’t a stranger to this feeling – plenty of lonely nights with your mind filled with a dream guy does that – but the heat… it was strange. Marco’s arms strained only slightly to keep Jean upright – his control probably slightly off because of the new stimulation. His fingers dug into Jean’s skin, but it somehow managed to only add to the sensation rather than hurt. 

Jean squeezed his eyes shut, focusing every thought he had on the feeling at that moment – the heat, the pressure, the almost painful pumping of his blood under his skin running in the excitement. Marco lent forward, lips running across Jean’s jawline as the water poured between them. 

“Open your eyes,” he muttered, barely moving away from Jean.

Jean did so, only to find himself completely floored (thankfully not literally). 

He stared up at Marco. Flushed, freckled face, water streaming down the curves and lines. That body still help him up, was still pushing inside him, and Jean found it hard to keep his eyes on Marco because it was just too… _weird_.

He may not have been totally proud to admit, but Jean had had more than his fair share of inappropriate dreams (or just daydreams, for that matter) about his freckled man… and he’d already made it more than clear to Marco that these past few weeks Marco himself had taken the place of the old freckled man…

So yeah… actually being in this situation was sort of strange. His head kept telling him it must have been just a dream – but his body’s reactions told him just how real it was. This was so much more invigorating than those silly dreams, so much more overwhelming. 

“Fucking hell…” he muttered coldly. 

Marco’s eyes widened uncertainly, his body freezing as he checked Jean’s face for hints that he wasn’t happy for some reason. 

Jean shook his head, trying to hold back the laugh that was bubbling up in his chest. 

“Sorry… just, I need to stop thinking stupid-ass love-struck thoughts when you’re balls deep in me.”

Marco frowned. “Wow, your dirty talk needs serious work.”

“Oh, ok then,” Jean smirked, wriggling his hips on Marco (and quickly regretting that since they both had to suck in a brief breath). “You going to pound me into the wall already?”

“I was waiting for you to adjust,” Marco sighed. 

“Well I’ve adjusted, so let’s get to breaking the tiles off the shower, shall we?”

“Wow, Jean, I’m swooning.”

“That was the plan.”

Marco’s lips caught Jean’s again – probably to try and just shut him up already – and slowly lifted Jean’s hips. The friction drew an immediate groan out of Jean. It was so intense, so quickly that Jean lost all sense for a moment; his mind completely void of anything but the wonderful numbness spreading across his hips. 

The thrusts were uneven, harsh, needy; Marco seemed unable to really keep himself in control as his body just drove on through pure instinct to find what felt best. Jean was pushed back into the tiles – sometimes he felt a hint of pain or discomfort, but his mind was too focused on the desire in his hips for it to register much. 

Jean clung to Marco as if his life depended on it; unable to hold back the whimpers as Marco thrust in _just right_. When he glanced at Marco to see his expression, he felt his chest tighten in pride at the screwed up features. Marco, his perfect freckled idiot, was totally overwhelmed. And it was all thanks to him. Jean didn’t know if was just his head making him think this way, but he was certain seeing Marco’s face looking like that only made his body surge with more ripples of exhilaration. 

He was vaguely aware to the awkwardly moving hands and fingers on his waist, so Jean gave a small questioning sound (since that was all he could get out right now). It seemed to do the trick as Marco opened his eyes and met his gaze – pain painted across his eyes. 

“I want to touch you more…” he gasped, tightening his grip on Jean’s hips. “But I can’t drop you.”

Jean slowly realised what he meant when Marco’s eyes kept flicking downwards. He could have just placed one foot on the floor to give himself more support and Marco a free hand… but Jean was a little selfish, and he was worried moving position would make Marco lose the spot he was hitting in Jean that was making this all so amazing. Instead, Jean just winked and pulled one of his arms tighter around Marco – pulling their chests slightly closer together – whilst removing the other completely. 

Marco realised what he was doing when he slid the free hand down his own chest. The journalist didn’t seem to happy that he could touch Jean himself, but the moment Jean’s hand wrapped round his own dick, Marco’s eyes lit up in excitement. The moment Jean made the first stroke, he felt the pleasure pooling unbelievably in his stomach – he could only imagine how it would have felt if Marco had touched him here instead, but maybe that was best saved for later; he didn’t feel like losing his head _completely_ the first time they did it. 

Biting his lip, Marco let out a small whine as Jean moved his hand quicker. He leant forward – now nibbling at Jean’s lips instead of his own – and sighed softly. “Next time, I want to do it.”

“You better,” Jean said – though his words were hardly forming. “I don’t like having to do all the work myself.”

“I’m holding you off the ground!”

“Yeah, but you can’t jack me off at the same time? So lazy…”

“Shut up.”

Perhaps to get back at Jean for his comments, Marco’s attack grew stronger… and better. Jean could barely keep his hand moving – despite knowing how much it added to the pleasure – purely because the feeling of Marco pushing in and out was just so maddening. More and more groans leaked out of both their mouths, until Marco decided the best way to tackle it was to lock lips once again. And that’s how they remained; pushing each other further and further over the edge, until the pool in Jean’s stomach started overflowing and he could no longer put any thought into how his tongue tangled with Marco’s, or how to add and remove pressure on his own dick. Instead, he just hung there, completely at Marco’s mercy as he pounded harder into him. 

With a strangled gasp, Jean came all over own hand. His mind bubbled with the ecstasy and he hardly noticed Marco’s continued thrusts. He was only aware that Marco had come when the journalist crushed their lips together violently – the kiss wet as saliva and the shower water mixed between their mouths. Then the warmth filled him, and Marco moaned beautifully into his mouth. 

Neither moved. For all Jean knew, neither _could_ move. They just clung together, faces pressed together as their chests heaved in an attempt to regain proper breathing and their minds unclouded from the sex. At some point, Jean wasn’t sure when, Marco carefully started to pull out and lower him down a little. He even cleaned them both off – taking the time to push his finger back inside Jean to remove anything else; but Jean’s legs were completely shot, and he had to just lean against Marco’s chest or else he’d have just collapsed. 

“Is the paint all gone?” Marco whispered into Jean’s ear at some point after. 

Jean pulled himself up a little with Marco’s shoulders and peered round. He gave that perfect canvas a few more wipes with his hand, and then he was satisfied it had returned to a clean (and equally as perfect) back. 

“Mhm.”

“Do you want to lie down?”

“Mhm.”

“Your own bed, then?”

“Yeah.”

Jean’s eyes were already drooping, and he just sunk further into Marco’s hold as Marco dealt with the world around them. The hot water that had been running down them, drumming against them this whole time vanished. His body was being towelled off carefully – it was like the hands drying him thought of him as some sort of glass doll. He didn’t mind. 

Before he knew it, Marco was trying to make him walk, but it was soon clear that Jean’s legs had basically clocked out for the day, so Marco hoisted him up once again and carried him through the house. It was no time at all before Jean was being swallowed by the soft mattress and mound of pillows that smelled like _his_ bed. He turned over and found the wonderful form of Marco uncertainly climbing in beside him – like he wanted permission or something first. 

Jean snorted and grabbed his arm, tugging him down and immediately wrapping his limbs around his freckled canvas. “Stay here.”

“Where would I be going?” Marco chuckled, happily entwining himself with Jean and sinking down into the bed. 

“Dunno… but just in case.”

“Alright.”

“And hey… you did it.”

“Did what?”

“I didn’t get out the shower until it was in your arms because I could barely stand.”

“Sorry…”

“I’m congratulating you, not complaining,” Jean nuzzled his face into Marco’s neck, breathing in the moment and realising that for once he’d be _actually_ sleeping in the arms of his freckled love, and not just imagining it. He could get used to this. 

“Night, Jean.”

“Mhm… love you.”

Marco lightly kissed Jean’s forehead and a moment a later there was nothing but the warm dark of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am neither a gay man nor a medical professional... or some sort of hair product creator..., so I cannot vouch for the legitimacy of using hair conditioner up your arse. Creative licence and all that. 
> 
> Please don't put conditioner up your arse...


	12. A New Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Jean has a new canvas ready and waiting to be used.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god... this is pretty much the last chapter!! After this, there's only the epilogue (which I _should_ have up either tomorrow or the day after!!!)  
>  Super short chapter alert. 
> 
> Thank you all who've put up with me and this story so far, please stick with us for the final stretch!  
> What the hell am I going to do with one fic complete... ~~start a new one and ignore my 3 other ongoing ones, probably~~
> 
> As always, you can find me [on tumblr](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com) and please enjoy!!

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Marco sat on the edge of the bed, massaging Jean’s back as he grumbled into his pillow. “This is worse than the after-effects of week-long painting sessions…”

“You told me to break the tiles…” Marco chuckled, pushing down on a particularly painful spot at the small of Jean’s back that drew out a low groan. 

“Yeah, I didn’t say break _me_.”

“You did heavily imply it though.”

Jean pushed up on his pillow and glanced round at his freckled canvas – smiling down on him as stupidly angelic as always. Turning onto his back (and holding back whimpers at _just_ how much his body was hurting after their escapade in the shower yesterday), Jean sat up against the headboard and reached out to stroke Marco’s cheek. “You have to head into work, don’t you?” 

Marco nodded and gave a ‘what-can-you-do’ shrug. Leaning across to pick up the clock on the bedside table, he frowned at the time. “And I should probably leave soon if I want to have time to go home and change.”

“Now, in _my_ humble opinion...” Jean grabbed Marco’s arm and tugged him forward – mainly just to save his own body the pain of moving. Marco easily got the message and shuffled closer, leaning over Jean and raising his eyebrows. “It gives off a really good impression going into work in the same clothes as the day before, and radiating ‘I just had sex’ to all your co-workers. Even more so,” Jean sat up straighter, brushing his lips against Marco’s neck. “If you have sex that morning as well.”

“I’m not going into work reeking of sex,” Marco laughed. “And as tempting as you are, I’m afraid I’m not into watching my partner squirm in pain during sex.” He poked Jean’s hip – which drew out a squeak of pain – to prove the point.

“Damn, see in that case we may not work out,” Jean sighed, pushing Marco back. “I was really looking for a super sadist.”

A flash of mischief crossed Marco’s eyes, bringing a smile out on Jean the moment he saw it. “Well, you clearly don’t really just how sadistic I can be…”

“Oh?” 

Marco leant forward, hands pushing the covers away from Jean and dancing down to sit on his hips. Jean cocked his head to the side to allow Marco access to his neck, but found lips brushing against his ears instead. 

“How about I show you?” he whispered. 

Jean was about to congratulate himself for managing to secure morning sex, but as Marco’s hands slid up his sides, he realised just what a terrible mistake he had made. 

A terrible, _terrible_ mistake. 

And the fingers attacked. 

“N-ha! No! Stop! Please! Aha!” Jean’s cries were somewhere in between laughter and screams – the pain caused by his body jerking around was bubbling just underneath his childish screeches brought about by the god-awful tickling session. 

Finally, Marco’s fingers stopped, and Jean collapsed into his pillows with a groan. Marco slumped on top of him – kissing Jean’s cheek apologetically and wiping the tears of laughter/agony from his eyes. No matter how much Jean refused to accept the apology, he dropped the subject once Marco made their lips meet. Jean was ready to cling to Marco and never let go. Screw work: who needed it anyway? It was just a terrible place that took Jean’s beautiful canvas away. Sadly though, Marco seemed to work ethic and common sense and all that useless stuff Jean did away with after school. (Not that he had much during school, of course). 

“I _really_ have to go…” Marco sighed, tearing himself away from Jean and moving across the room to grab his phone. Jean moped in his bed, and listened quietly as Marco ordered a taxi to come get him. Jean _had_ offered to drive him earlier on, but that had led to him moving and discovering the agony that was occupying his body currently. Apparently Marco didn’t feel safe being driven around by a tired and stiff painter, or something. 

Once finished, Marco pushed his phone into his pocket and smiled over his shoulder at Jean. He seemed intent on staying all the way over there (Jean wasn’t sure whether that was to hold Jean or himself back). 

“You can use some of my deodorant or cologne for the taxi, if you want?” Jean offered. 

“Oh? Yeah that would be great actually.”

“You should use my favourite. It’s called ‘I just had sex’ and it really gives off a good impress–!”

Jean flinched, cringed, and then chuckled as Marco lobbed a pair of boxers at him. 

“Shut up and put some pants on, idiot. You can at least see me to the door,” As he turned to leave the room, Marco shot one last grin to Jean. “And who knows? Maybe if you come down, I may let you have a little more time…”

Jean didn’t need to know what ‘a little more time’ entailed; he’d pulled on the boxers that had been sent his way, and was out and down the stairs before Marco had even reached the front door. 

A little more touching, a tad more grinding, and a lot more kissing later, the taxi pulled up outside and Marco undid the locks so he could leave. Their hands stayed clasped until the very last second, but neither actually seemed aware of how reluctant their bodies were to part; they were too busy focusing on holding one another’s gaze until Marco was off the front step and walking down to the waiting car. Without a thought to his appearance, Jean leant against the doorframe and watched as the taxi pulled off. His body couldn’t (or perhaps simply wouldn’t) move for a while after that – so his eyes stayed fixed upon the end of the street for another few minutes or so. Eventually, the wind chilled him enough to force him back inside. 

Jean got ready slowly that morning. No matter how tired his body was, there was no way his mind would have let him go back to bed. He opted to actually make use of the long-ignored bath, and had what must have been the longest, warmest, most calming baths he’d ever had. His limbs were almost confused when he built up the energy to get out; clearly unsure whether to feel relaxed and at ease after the soak, or even stiffer from how long they’d been in the tub. It left Jean’s body feeling strange, but not unpleasant exactly. 

The only decent food he had in the kitchen (that wasn’t out of date or turning questionable colours) was cereal. The milk was lumpy and smelled god-awful, so Jean sat watching the morning news chewing through dry Coco Pops (which was surprisingly decent). Once he’d cleaned the kitchen up a little, he grabbed a glass of water and went to head for the living room – he may as well pass the time watching TV or playing a game until Marco came back. 

Not that Marco had said he’d be back. Jean was just sort of assuming that after the mayhem of yesterday. 

Just as he was about to step out of the kitchen, something in Jean’s mind snapped. 

No… ‘snapped’ wasn’t the right word. It was more like a string in his head had been plucked – for a thought suddenly came to him; one that had been buried under the morning-after haze and Marco. 

Jean turned back round again, and headed straight for his workshop. He’d planned to take a break… but now that things were sorted with Marco it wasn’t like he had to, right? He didn’t pay much attention to the mess still around, just cleared what needed to be cleared (or, in honest terms: threw aside what needed to be threw aside), and searched through the back of the workshop for one of the larger canvas pieces. 

Setting it up ready, Jean grabbed a pencil and stared up at the clear, white space. Yeah, he knew _exactly_ what needed to be put here. He didn’t need to worry about his feelings or who he painted anymore; he could just let his hand move, and see what was created. 

And as he made his first line, he knew that what was going to grace this canvas, would be the most beautiful painting yet.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is useless, and we try to understand what on earth Marco sees in him.

Time still couldn’t reach Jean when he was inside the old garage; once he had shut himself inside that workshop, nothing else mattered. The world still turned round outside, but Jean didn’t have to pay it any thought; he could sit inside that workshop for as long as he wanted without a care. After all, time-keeping was Marco’s job.

Jean was still getting used to the new set-up of the workshop. Not that much had changed; mainly that all the boxes had been labelled and stacked along the far wall – if anything, it was easier to find things he needed, but that didn’t mean he was used to it. Besides, labels weren’t really beneficial when you’re half-dead with exhaustion and overwork and have lost the ability to understand words – written or otherwise. 

His easel and paints lay forgotten in their usual spots for today, and that reliable, old couch was free of Jean’s drool. Instead, he sat in one of the recently cleared spots in his workshop – a sturdy and worn table stood where boxes had been previously, and on it a messy clump of clay and sculpting tools. Jean hunched over the workbench, hands covered in the grey gloop, frowning at yet another failed attempt. Painting and drawing was definitely his forte; he hadn’t expected sculpting to be this big of a hurdle. Pencils and brushes always drew exactly what Jean wanted them to, so it was going to take time getting used to his bare hands failing his imagination. Armin had told him that clay was going to be the easiest material to start with, but Jean was starting to doubt it was true. 

“Jean? You here?”

Almost happy to have a distraction from the disaster of clay on the table, Jean spun round to smile at Marco as he came into the workshop. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the mess Jean had made and tugged his tie loose. 

“New project?” he asked, tossing his bag on the couch and wandering over. 

Jean shrugged. He offered his cheek to Marco and was rewarded with a kiss. “I got some inspiration last night and figured it was the best time to give sculpting a whirl. The equipment’s been sitting here for months, so better give it some love.”

“I wasn’t aware sculpting was… so messy…” Marco chuckled, looking from the table to the floor and then up at Jean himself. 

“Yeah… neither did I…”

Jean went about trying to wash the worst of the clay off his hands as Marco tried to make out what Jean had been attempting to create. Glancing at his watch, Marco narrowed his eyes. “Hey, if you’re in here being all artsy, are you going to able to make our reservation tonight?”

Jean straightened up and wiped his hands on his apron. Something nagged in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite work out what it was. In the end, he just bit his lip and asked Marco, “Reservation?”

“Dinner? Tonight? At that fancy new place you wanted to try? For our anniversary?”

“Ok, I’m _positive_ our anniversary’s not for another week.”

“Yes, but _someone_ decided to celebrate early, since he has another art show the day after our actual anniversary and, quote, ‘Can’t be at a show and screwing his boyfriend’s brains out at the same time’.”

“Well aren’t I thoughtful?”

“Jean!”

Ugh, Marco was pulling the sad face. Jean _hated_ the sad face. The sad face always won. Groaning, Jean leant against the edge of the table, reaching out to tug Marco closer by his sleeve (and making grey marks on Marco’s pristine white work shirt in the process, which probably wouldn’t help the mood). 

“I’m sorry, but it’s fine, I’ll go get ready now,” Marco’s frown lines smoothed out as Jean spoke, though he sighed when he spotted the colour of his sleeve. “But I swear I don’t remember you ever mentioning this dinner.”

Just as Jean moved to head out, Marco’s arms slipped round his waist and pulled them together. It seemed once the shirt got dirty, the journalist didn’t care if it got worst. Leaning down, he smiled – in a way that seemed patronising. “Jean… _you_ made the reservations. _This morning_.” 

“… I’ll just take your word for it.”

Marco rolled his eyes, knocking his forehead against Jean’s as he chuckled. “What would you do without me?”

“Collapse. I thought we’d already proved all that.”

“Speaking of your inability to function without me,” Marco un-looped one arm from Jean to fetch something out his trouser pocket. It took Jean perhaps a moment longer than it should have to realise it was his own phone Marco had. “Christa left a message. She’s coming over tomorrow to see the painting. Armin texted as well saying he was coming with her.”

Jean would have rather stuck pins in his eyes than have those two infiltrate his home and take away his precious Marco time. “Christa has a good fifty paintings of mine, and Armin has a bloody gallery full – literally. Why the fuck are they coming to my house to see one blasted painting?”

“You brought this upon yourself,” Marco teased, tightening his hold on Jean. “I told you that people would throw a fit when you decided to hang _that_ painting in your own house.”

Now it was Jean’s turn to roll his eyes – though, thinking about the large painting that now claimed a whole room to itself upstairs, he too knew that it wasn’t a painting that should be kept to himself. The first morning he woke up beside Marco and knew that he’d finally captured the freckled man he’d been chasing after, Jean had been punched in the brain with inspiration. He’d gotten ready, wandered into his workshop, and created what was undoubtedly the most beautiful and stunning piece of art he’d ever imagined. It wasn’t only himself who thought this: Marco had been stunned into silence for the good part of half an hour when Jean finally revealed it to him; the effect on Armin had been the exact opposite, and he didn’t stop rambling in excitement for two hours; the whole public was floored by the piece. Jean himself couldn’t even put a finger on _what_ made this painting his most successful; perhaps it was technically and visually the most attractive piece, or maybe the emotion behind it seeped out of the canvas and intoxicated the whole room, maybe it was simply a coincidence everyone liked this one the most. Whatever the case, Jean had adored it too much to part with it. He’d allowed Armin to have it in his gallery for two days, but then it had been whisked back to his safe and private home.

Besides, it had been the painting he’d promised Marco, so really it belonged to him.

Jean had called it ‘Wings of Freedom’ – he wasn’t sure why, it just seemed to fit. It was an almost exact replica of the image he’d painted on Marco’s back, except this time Marco’s back was actually _part_ of the image. The wings on his back looked as if they were slowly starting to melt away, as well. Honestly though, the hardest part of painting it was having to decide which freckles he could add to the image and which would be added by the wings.

A kiss being planted on his lips briefly broke Jean out of his daze. Marco smiled at him. “Speaking of that painting… The article was published.”

Jean cocked an eyebrow. “So?”

Flicking Jean on the arm, Marco moved away from him and back over to collect his bag. “It’s your second article, and you’ve got the front page. You framed your first one, and that was just a little thing!”

“Yeah but it was also written by my boyfriend,” Jean pointed out. “This is just some random-ass journalist.”

Marco shot him a look, holding the magazine up. “Hannah’s one of my closest friends, and she’s a much better writer than me.”

“I liked your one though.”

“My boss wasn’t so impressed with it though.”

“But it was great!”

“It was basically a love letter.”

“Hence why I liked it!”

Marco shook his head. He started flicking through the magazine until he found Jean’s article (or at least Jean hoped that’s what he was looking at). “I was kind of jealous that she was spending so much time writing about you…”

“Well, you spend so much time kissing me, so I think you win.”

“Jean…”

“Marco…”

The two stared each other down for a moment before Jean cracked and grinned. Untying his apron, he draped it over the table and clapped his hands together. 

“Right! Well this future masterpiece can wait until after dinner, so I’ll go wash up,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to finish him after a night with you.”

Marco frowned in question, but Jean ignored it and started heading off to go grab his shower. As he neared the door, he heard Marco moving across the room – and purposefully sped up his walk to try and escape the workshop before his boyfriend caught on. 

He was just making it out of the kitchen when he heard it. 

“JEAN! ARE YOU FUCKING SCULPTING MY DICK?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaannnnndddd that's it!
> 
> Can we please take a moment to remember this was supposed to be a one-shot smut fic? 13 chapter later...  
> But yeah, I'm super proud that I actually managed to finish a fic ~~it doesn't happen that often, so hopefully this is the start of a new ellen~~
> 
> Thank you guys SO MUCH for sticking with me and reading this, and commenting and kudosing and everything. I hope you've enjoyed it, or that you at least don't regret wasting your time to read it!! XD
> 
> Anyways, here's where Jean and Marco's story ends (in this verse anyways), thank you again, and please remember to never put conditioner up your arse.
> 
> You may find me weeping over the loss of a fic [on tumblr](http://freckledbodty.tumblr.com) if you miss my ramblings that much. Thanks guys!


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